


A Thousand Crimson Years

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Castiel's True Form, Character Death, Declarations Of Love, Destiel Reverse Bang, Destiel Reverse Bang 2016, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Episode: s09e11 First Born, Episode: s10e05 Fan Fiction, Episode: s10e18 Book of the Damned, First Kiss, Grumpy Dean, Helpful Sam, Humor, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Mentions of Zen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Amara has been defeated, and Lucifer cast down in the Empty. Also the one where Cas is cursed, and Lucifer is their only hope, because life is funny like that. And, yeah, the one where Dean has just about had enough - of Cas dying on him, of Sam’s bullshit, and mostly of his own (unfair, totally undeserved, deafening as fuck) feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Godzilla-Voldemort Hybrid

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[Art] Molting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409012) by [SasTMK (OutOfLuck)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK). 



> So, this is my entry for the **Destiel Reverse Bang**. Normally, whatever I write gets sucked into sheer angst, even harmless and fluffy Valentine fics (these two _idiots_ ), and this time I really wanted to avoid that, and I think I sort of managed it. This means this story is a bit different from what I usually write - I don't know how to feel about it, and I hope you guys will like it.
> 
> Also, well, I'd like to acknowledge and thank my amazing artist, **Sas** (AO3: OutOfLuck), without whom, _et cetera_. His wonderful drawing is now up, and I really urge you guys to go and look at it, because it's gorgeous. Sas is a Sadreel gentleman, which is why this story will move in that direction as well (though, of course, it remains primarily a Destiel fic).
> 
> Finally, I am working on a complicated and possibly demented meta about Amara and Zen; the thing was so much on my mind that it seeped a bit into this story. Zen is an incredibly fascinating subject I know very little about, so, well _Don't try this at home_ , as they say. Or, you know, do. It's incredibly healthy for you and the chances of falling into the Empty are, I'm told, pretty slim.

listen  
beloved i dreamed  
i thought you would have deceived  
me and became a star in the kingdom  
of heaven  
through day and space i saw you close  
your eyes and i came riding  
upon a thousand crimson years arched with agony  
i reined them in tottering before  
the throne and as  
they shied at the automaton moon from  
the transplendent hand of sombre god  
i picked you  
as an apple is picked by the little peasants for their girls

_E.E. Cummings_

 

# 

 

“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” says Dean, loudly and clearly, for what must be the third time.

“We’ve gone undercover before,” Sam points out, and, frankly, this is getting annoying.

“Not like this. Not as ourselves. I mean, I’m not pretending to be your brother,” Dean insists, and Sam looks hurt.

“Dean, this is something we must deal with.”

“Yeah, I know, thanks,” says Dean, and he makes the mistake of looking at Cas - currently sitting down at the table and moving his head a bit owlishly between the two of them as if following a ping pong game.

It wouldn’t be fair to blame Cas, though. After all, he’s the one who saved the fucking world this time around, and yeah, Dean is more than willing to give him something in return - homemade burgers, scrumptious blowjobs and that very expensive honey from their local Farmers’ Market pretty much top the list, and Dean is trying, okay - he’s gotten a solid two thirds of those items polished off, which is more than most people, so there. Hurray for productivity.

“This _is_ a good idea,” Sam adds, after that meaningful pause he always allows whenever Dean looks at Cas - sometimes Dean expects him to actually look at the camera and say stuff like he’s in _The Office_ and everybody knows those two dorks are going to end up together except for them.

Yes, Sam _definitely_ does that, and Dean hates it, because things are - complicated.

“You _never_ have good ideas,” he says, and that is extremely generous, considering what he really wants to do is punch that smug little smile off Sam’s face.

“I do too.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

And this was a mistake. Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t want Sam thinking about it - any of it - not about Ruby or Amelia or, Hell, even _Lucifer_ , because Sam is still not sleeping - only last night, Dean had gone to investigate the loud noises coming from the pantry at three in the morning, and he’d found Sam busy reorganizing the whole thing, a pencil between his teeth and a look of intense concentration on his face - ‘Is that a label maker?’ Dean had asked, lowering his gun, and, of course, Sam had lost that argument before it could even _become_ an argument, because, honestly - a _label maker_?

“This is exactly like that time you wanted us to go at that couples’ retreat,” he says, hastily, picking something relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things. “Remember that?”

Sam looks mulish, but not like he wants to throw himself off a cliff: point.

“There were reports of strange sounds and smells,” he says, and, yeah, let’s go with that.

“Yeah. And guess who was there? In a lucky, unthinkable stroke of coincidence? That actress you like. The one from _Mad Men_. Funny you forgot to mention it when you insisted we check it out.”

“Peggy or Joan?” asks Cas, as if this is even relevant, and Sam blushes.

“It’s not like that,” he says, just as Dean says, “The mousey one, Cas - haven’t you ever come across Sam’s porn bookmarks? I didn’t even know ‘librarian’ was a thing.”

And, yeah, so he’s lying through his teeth here, but Sam still does his best to disappear into the floor and that is not what this is about, anyway.

“Peggy Olson is a remarkable woman, and she also has a pleasing, symmetrical figure,” says Cas, as if someone asked him anything, and now Dean is starting to get annoyed - he’s not going to sit here and listen to Cas waxing some lyrical speech about the perkiness of Peggy Olson’s breasts.

It’s not like he’s jealous - he’s not.

It’s just not a very effective use of their time, is all.

“Anyway, wasn’t the so-called haunting planned by her psycho ex?” he says, turning back to Sam.

Sam mumbles something unintelligible.

“Exactly. And remember what your plan was?”

More mumbling.

“I swear to God, Sammy - you came up to me and suggested you’d dress up as a security guard so that you could swoop in and save Ms Cute and Feminist -”

“Her name is,” Sam starts, miserably, but Dean won’t be swayed.

“- in some kind of demented _Bodyguard_ scenario, and meanwhile me and Cas would have been stuck in some room doing couple therapy -”

“Couple therapy?” asks Cas, bewildered, and Dean gestures vaguely at his brother, as if he can’t even bear mentioning Sam’s name.

“ _He_ wanted us to sign up as some bickering couple on the brink of divorce and -”

“But we don’t bicker,” says Cas, missing the point by a mile, as freaking usual. “And we’re not divorcing.”

“Yeah, we’re not a couple either,” says Dean, way too forcefully, ignoring the flutter in his stomach. “It’s called going undercover, look it up.”

Dean makes a mistake, then, and looks at Sam, and Sam’s face is clearly saying, _Yeah, like it would have been a real hardship to sit around with Cas pretending you’re newlyweds or some shit_ and also _And anyway, no need for a marriage therapist to tell you guys to look at each other’s eyes for five minutes without speaking because it’s not like you don’t do it all the goddamn time_ and even _And if you’d ended up in bed with Cas then I would have planned your wedding and a cute doggie could have been ring bearer_ and _My God, Dean_ -

“This is not like that,” Cas says, all huffy and strangely dignified. “It is not a mistake. Zen meditation will almost certainly give us access to the Empty.”

Dean passes his hand through his hair, turns away from Sam before he can blush so deeply that he self-combusts, because that is totally a thing. The Men of Letters wrote about it, even. Somewhere.

“ _Almost certainly_ ,” he echoes, “That’s a bit thin for what this is. Because if you’re wrong, Cas -”

“Dean, we’ve hunted on -”

“Don’t!” Dean growls, but it’s too late.

“- less,” Sam says, but the word now has a slightly interrogative pitch.

“Dude, come _on_ \- every damn time you say that we end up facing some Godzilla-Voldemort hybrid who feeds on souls and livers.”

Sam opens his mouth, and he’s clearly about to say Dean is hiding behind humour again, and also possibly something else which is incredibly girly, something along the lines of Dean being more than a soul and a liver (of Dean being also a heart, and a good one at that) - when Cas sits up straighter and things get worse.

“How would that work?” he asks, very seriously. “Wasn’t Godzilla a gigantic lizard?”

“Oh my God,” says Dean, because he can see how this is going to go, and yep, now Sam’s got his thinking face on, and -

“Hybrids _do_ exist in the wizarding world, though,” he says. “Viktor Krum once used that shark spell - or Godzilla could be a Horcrux, like Nagini.”

“ _To confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business_ ,” Cas quotes, obediently.

“Would the radiation influence -” starts Sam, but Dean’s had enough.

“I don’t want to hear another word from either one of you. We’re _not_ going, and that’s final.”


	2. The Art of Futon Folding

The monastery is annoyingly serene. It’s not big - just two buildings in the middle of a forest, really, and a track road leading up to them - but it’s truly beautiful. Everything has a distinct _Memoirs of a Geisha_ feel (the slightly slanting roofs; the delicate screen doors) and even the forest is not the kind of forest they usually end up in - a dark, unsettling place which may or may not (but probably does) contain vampire nests; no, it’s a pretty place, full of blooming trees and grazing deer and whatever. And as for the few people around - some of them wearing black robes, others sober, uncomplicated clothes in pastel shades - well, they seem cheerful in a quiet, peaceful way.

Sam and Cas love it.

(Dean hates it.)

“Look at the _garden_ ,” Sam gushes, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“It’s _rocks_ ,” he points out.

“Zen gardens imitate the truest essence of nature, not what our senses can perceive. They are thought to -”

“Cas, I don’t care, okay? We’re only here because -”

\- _you’re sick_ , he’d been about to say, _and possibly dying_. But, yeah, he’s doing his best not to think about that, because whenever he does something swells up in his chest and he can’t breathe and _Oh my God that’s a panic attack_ and Dean Winchester does _not_ do panic attacks.

He shakes his head, tries again.

“It’s a case, okay? So, okay, I agreed with this, but it doesn’t mean that I have to like it, or that I want to know more about - about -”

He gestures, trying to include all of it - the wooden Buddha statue under the portico, the lingering smell of incense; the black-robed monks shuffling here and there and looking contentedly busy, like ants or bees going about their unimportant business and peacefully waiting for the rain to come down and destroy them all.

The one good thing about this, as far as Dean can see, is that there is no pretending involved. The guy now welcoming them doesn’t want to see IDs, and he would never dream to even ask why they are here. This is a monastery, after all, which means anyone can just walk in; and the fact it’s a Zen monastery presumably means the monks don’t give a shit either way.

“The bedrooms are that way,” says the guy, smiling. “Why don’t you go on and get settled? I can give you a tour of the grounds later.”

_The grounds_ , of course, is an overly optimistic way to refer to rocks and gravel and a large vegetables garden overflowing with leafy things. But Sam nods enthusiastically and smiles back and even tries a kind of two hands bow to indicate how very _grateful_ he is to be here - like they’re actually here to better themselves, or something, and not to go after Lucifer (the actual Devil; the Bringer of Light and the Destroyer of All Things), fucking _again_.

They walk in silence down the corridor - Dean peers inside one of the rooms, and, okay, there is no furniture, not even a bed, great - until Sam stops, looks around.

“I think that’s us,” he says, gesturing at two rooms with their doors ajar and a little card stuck on the casing ( _Novaks_ , it says, because Dean had been in charge of that and had chickened out of giving their true names at the last minute and that’s the best he’d been able to come up with. Sam hadn’t said anything, because Sam presumably liked his nose right the shape it was).

“It can’t be. There’s three of us,” Dean points out.

“This is not a hotel, it’s a monastery,” says Sam, in that patient voice he uses when he’s trying to convey how stupid Dean actually is. “We’re supposed to share.”

Dean blinks.

“Right. So, we’ll just -” he makes a vague gesture which includes himself and Sam, and Sam gets even _more_ sanctimonious.

“Somebody needs to keep an eye on Cas, remember?”

And there is no reason, okay, for that somebody to be Dean; none. But, of course, after a hushed and half-brutal argument, Sam fucks off alone, while Dean and Cas remain on the threshold of what is now their room and stare at it.

“Where are the beds?” asks Dean, hoping the plural will convey that absolutely nothing weird is going to happen between them, no matter how hard Sam tries to make it happen.

Cas points at two lumps of fabric in the corners.

“Futons,” he says, and Dean groans.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me,” he says, because the last time he actually slept on one of those things he’d been twenty-three and he’d still woken up with a hell of a backache (but, well, the girl had been worth it).

Supremely unconcerned, Cas steps into the room and puts his duffel down.

Dean knows perfectly well the thing is empty - it’s not like Cas needs clothes, after all, or any of those other human things - toothpaste, towels, and a single, faded photograph of a woman long dead - but, hey, whatever - he could do with more storage space, anyway, because now he looks at it, the wardrobe (which consists entirely of two shelves hidden in the wall behind yet another sliding door - Jesus, what is wrong with _hinges_?) is painfully small.

As he’s putting his stuff away, he hears a soft hiss behind him and turns back in alarm.

“You’re okay, buddy?”

Cas nods, but he doesn’t move away from the wall. He’s leaning against it as if it’s the only thing holding him up, and his white face is a sudden reminder that this is why they’re here in the first place. This is why it _has_ to work.

“Let me -” starts Dean, his heart fluttering a bit, because he hates this, he truly does - seeing Cas in pain, after everything - after they’d all thought it was over -

And there is nothing he can do, so he ends up gripping Cas’ shoulder and staring in a manly, completely unaffected way at that hidden, enticing place which is Cas’ collarbone - how it is just visible under the white shirt - how the muscles pull under the skin, and Dean wants to bow his head there and hug Cas and breathe in his smell and -

“I’m better now,” says Cas, though he doesn’t sound better at all.

He places one hand on top of Dean’s, and Dean squeezes his shoulder and lets go.

“Good,” he says, his throat a bit too dry. “Good.”

It’s so _unfair_ , all of it. Because, so, okay, Amara had exploded or something, and good riddance, and Lucifer had disappeared, but Dean had enjoyed barely two days of peace and quiet and hoping things could be a bit less melodramatic in his fucking life when - 

And it is all so unbelievably messed up.

For fuck’s sake - he hadn’t even managed to catch up on his anime before everything had gone to shit again.

In fact, Dean had been watching _One Piece_ when Sam had first brought it up.

“Cas is spending a lot of time in his room, don’t you think?” he’d said, sipping on one of his ridiculous green smoothies.

“It’s been two days, give him time,” Dean had said, and that had been perfectly sensible - that final showdown in New Orleans had been intense like whoa.

Sam had hummed in respectful disagreement; had even walked behind Dean to get at the empty beer bottle by his elbow (though he’d only really done that to glance at the screen and say, in that prissy voice of his, ‘The manly duel - Senor’s elegy of love? Really, Dean?’ - Dean had ignored him), had started the washing up without needed to be reminded it was his turn.

But, well, it had been way harder to give his full attention to the story after that. Dean’s eyes had kept unfocusing, the subtitles becoming white blobs of lost meaning as he’d forced himself to admit that, yes, Cas was acting weird.

More than his _usual_ weird, that was.

And then the day after that Cas hadn’t come out of his room at all.

“Cas?” Dean had called, his hand reaching for the handle, then falling down again. “We’re going out for burgers, wanna come?”

Silence, and then noise, and then the kind of low grunt Jeff Goldblum made right before he’d turned into a fly.

“No, you go,” Cas had said, without inviting Dean in, and so Dean had gone.

And, boy, hadn’t that lunch been a fun and joyous occasion. Sam had spent the whole time alternatively coming up with horrid diseases Cas could be suffering from and insisting it was Dean’s task to find out what was wrong, because -

Of course, when he’d finally reached that _because_ Dean had looked at him in that _I will melt your face off with the salt shaker_ expression he always got when Sam started to imply things, and that had been the end of it.

Except, not really.

Because, yeah, Cas _had_ been acting weird.

And then, on day four, Dean had had enough of it.

“Cas, you decent? I’m coming in,” he’d said, trying to silence that wave of worry and warmth in his belly he always had around Cas, and then he’d breathed in in firm, manly resolution and had pushed the door open.

And - holy _shit_.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Sam says, and Dean jumps out of his skin.

“What?” he barks, turning around to face his ridiculously tall brother who now looks -

“Wait, are those _fat_ pants?”

“They’re my _running_ pants,” Sam says, all hurt and dignified. “We’re going to sit on the floor six hours a day, were you planning to wear jeans?”

Dean stares at him.

Sam rolls his eyes.

“You can borrow a pair,” he says. “And the futon should remain folded during the day.”

Dean shakes his head in annoyance, then looks down at the heavy mattress he’d been spreading out on the tatami floor.

“What, is it some mystical thing?”

“No, it’s to prevent mold from growing under it,” says Sam, slowly, and, really, he sounds way too superior for someone who now looks like a _Karate Kid_ extra (Defeated Minion Number Three, probably).

“You know what,” Dean says, “I’m driving back to the city, grabbing one last decent dinner and buying some pregnancy clothes. The last thing I need is to crack my head open on the floor because your stupid pants are three feet too long.”

“But sensei Alan said he was going to show us around,” Sam objects, and Dean rolls his eyes.

Sensei _Alan_. Honestly?

“I’m sure that’s _fascinating_. You’ll tell me all about it when I get back, okay? Cas, wanna come?”

Cas, however, is now sitting down on the floor, his face way too pale and his eyes a bit feverish.

Dean wishes he could go there and pat his head, but, yeah.

“Okay, then. Awesome. See you guys later.”

As he walks away, he can feel Sam looking back at him, a laser beam of irritation and disappointment carving a hole all the way to Dean’s ribs.

The good thing is, he’s used to it.


	3. Black is the New White

Dean buys some stupid yoga clothes without trying them on - he’s in and out of the mall in ten minutes - and then heads straight for the first bar he sees, a place of loud music and lights and people half his age looking as glossy as purebred horses.

He’s on his third glass of whiskey when he looks up, sees a man dancing in the mirror behind the bar - a laughing guy with a shock of dark, unruly curls who’s seemingly staring at the back of Dean’s head.

And Dean almost wants it - because he could be _normal_ , right here and now. For a full minute, he wonders what would have happened if he’d been that douche from Zachariahs’ mindfuck - Dean Smith, director of sales and marketing at Whatever Bridge & Iron Inc.

He’d be wearing better clothes, for a start. And he’d probably turn around and wink at Mr Professional Dancer and invite him over and, quite possibly, fuck him hard and fast in the bar’s fancy bathroom (an upscale horror with colourful Warhol things on the walls). He almost wishes he could go home with the guy, in fact, or anyone, and have sex again and then wake up in a neat flat without a single weapon in it. And this - this is how normal people build a life. They don’t know anything about anything, and they manage to do it all anyway - lazy breakfasts and trashy television and late night discussions where Team Edward and Team Jacob are kinky sexual preferences and not a reminder that, yeah, reality is a bit different and those things don’t actually want to take you to _prom_ \- they want to fucking rip your _throat_ out.

The idea swims inside his brain, once, twice, and then it’s gone.

Because Dean Smith didn’t have a brother and because Dean doesn’t care about lofts all that much and because Cas is waiting for him, and Cas is complicated and weird and deserves so much more and Dean -

And Dean forgets what Cas is, that’s all. Most of the time, Cas is this dorky human - someone who likes three spoonfuls of honey in his tea, and, gross. Someone who rolls his eyes when Superman catches Lois Lane in mid-air, because haven’t people heard of acceleration? and then shifts uneasily when Sam asks him if _he_ could do it, then, and how. Someone who leans back against the arm of the couch, almost asleep, looking every shade of cute and huggable, when he actually doesn’t sleep and can’t sleep and is completely, utterly _alien_ and Dean saw his fucking _wings_ and now he’s freaking _out_ -

Because when he’d opened the door, he’d seen the wings first. He’d seen the wings _only_ , actually - had completely forgotten this was Cas’ room, a normal, boring place with one of those guinea pigs calendars on the wall (a gift from Sam, the bastard) - he’d just stood there and gaped like a goddamn idiot and -

# 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he’d said, because the things were - _huge_ \- a wondrous creation of dark feathers and magic and what the actual _fuck_ -

And then Cas had shuddered - because Cas had been there, of course, these were _his_ wings, for Chrissakes, and Cas had been kneeling on the floor, half the buttons of his shirt undone, looking up at Dean with - was that _shame_? - _Jesus_ \- and when Cas had winced, a slight movement of pain Dean had been completely unprepared for (something that had pierced him through and through like a fucking _blade_ ), that other thing had happened - what in animals is called shedding or molting or some shit and leaves your couch a fucking disgrace, except this was an actual angel of the fucking _Lord_ , and Cas’ discarded feathers - a whirlwind of soft, dark fluffiness - had twisted and turned around Dean’s head, suspended in mid-air - the room had seemed to light up with them, which was stupid, okay, because these were black feathers and there is no such thing as black light, and so, okay maybe there _is_ but it has nothing to do with this beautiful, this motherfucking miracle right here and -

“Dean?” Cas had called, and Dean had finally closed his mouth.

He hadn’t been gaping. Or freaking out. Or feeling he could cry from the sheer awesomeness of it. Not at all - none of those things.

Dean had stood there for another twenty seconds watching the feathers become brighter and brighter and then disappear in a loud flash of light; and then his brain had caught up with his heart (or maybe the other way around), and he’d ran forward, falling to his knees next to Cas (trying not to look at the bloody wings, because, yeah).

“You okay?” he’d said, reaching out, gripping Cas’s shoulder, and Cas had sort of leaned into it.

“I - I don’t know,” he’d said, closing his eyes.

Unable to help himself, Dean had let his hand slide up - he’d stroked Cas’ neck, slow and careful, and then reached behind his head, towards the huge, slightly glittering wings -

“Don’t,” Cas had said, because he was this bizarre creature and he could clearly see what Dean was doing even if his eyes were closed.

“I - sorry,” Dean had said, and then had collapsed against the chest of drawers, suddenly aware that his body felt all wrong - that it was way too cold and he was trembling and -

When he’d looked up again, the wings were gone.

“What the _hell_ , man?” he’d said, and that had been the beginning of a complicated, nonsensical discussion.

Sam had poked his head in about halfway through; had started to take actual _notes_ soon after that as Cas shifted, in an unpracticed, instinctual movement, closer and closer to Dean until their shoulders had touched.

Dean hadn’t minded.

(That’s not the problem.)

He’d still stared straight ahead, though, because, yeah, listening to Cas’ gravelly voice talk about Lucifer -

And that is why Dean looks away from the mirror and downs his drink and stands up and drives away.

He doesn’t need a random stranger with a normal life. He already has a life, and so, okay, it’s weird and complicated, but he will take it. Every time.

He’s halfway back when Cas calls him.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and if Dean adjusts himself in the seat it’s not because his jeans are a bit tighter.

“Hey there,” he says. “Feeling a bit better?”

“Yes,” Cas says, but that could mean just about anything - he’d once insisted he was perfectly fine with half the Purgatory monsters down his guts, after all - Dean is never trusting him again, not about this, and that is why he presses his foot down on the gas, just a bit.

“Don’t drive too fast,” Cas adds, and Dean frowns at the phone.

“What?”

“I heard the sound of the pedal,” says Cas, mildly. “Don’t hurry back, Dean. Not on my account.”

“Well, I’m concerned. Sue me,” says Dean, because Cas is fucking unreasonable. “Unless you like having a piece of Lucifer inside you, or something.”

“I don’t - it’s not like that,” starts Cas, but this is a discussion they’ve had before and it makes Dean’s head ache to try and understand what, exactly, Lucifer did to Cas.

Because, well, so Lucifer had been _inside_ Cas, and eeeew. And he’d also sort of healed Cas’ wings so he himself could move around, and that’s how they had figured it out - a fine moment of strategic thinking, that had been. Kudos to them. And then, after they’d - killed - Lucifer, though Cas objects to the term ("A man cannot kill an archangel, Dean."), the wings had stayed. And apparently there was something wrong with them. And now Cas is - well, Dean won’t say _dying_ , because that’s not an option, but - _hurting_ , somehow.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Listen, is Sam there? I tried calling him earlier and -”

“Sam has retired for the night,” says Cas, sounding like a bad Victorian novel.

Dean checks his watch. Nine fucking thirty.

“What? Is he sick or something?”

“We start with zazen at four thirty, Dean,” says Cas, all reasonable, and now Dean almost regrets not staying behind with the hot guy from the bar, because, four thirty? _Jesus_.

“Well, he’s getting soft. We’ve been going on less then five hours a night for years, and now all of a sudden he needs his beauty sleep?”

Cas makes a humming sound, which may or may not be some kind of disagreement - he’s probably X-rayed Dean’s body several times, come to think of it, and he surely has his own ideas on the effects sleeping so little has had on Dean over the years.

“Okay, I’m coming up to the gates. See you in five,” Dean says, bravely resisting an aggressive _What?_ and hanging up instead.

The downside of not picking an argument about the state of his cells, of course, is that now he’s free to contemplate what lies ahead - sharing a room with Cas for the next - who even knows.

And not a big room at that.

Dean curses softly as the lights of the temple appear behind the trees.

God, he’s so _fucked_.


	4. Yeah, No (God Yes)

So Cas doesn’t sleep, but the son of a bitch does shuffle around. Like, a _lot_. And Dean can also see him, not that he’s trying to, because there are no shades and a lot of starlight. So he doesn’t look as Cas settles down on his back, his profile sharp as glass in the half shadow; and then he doesn’t look when Cas turns away from him; he doesn’t watch the way Cas’ hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, as if scratching something which isn’t there at all. And he’s still not looking when Cas sits up and starts breathing hard and then -

The huge black wings explode from his back, very nearly taking Dean’s head off, and Dean hurriedly shuffles back against the wall, looking at this thing - wondering how he could ever forget what Cas actually is, and -

“I - sorry,” says Cas, like that first time, and Dean shakes his head.

A thought pops into his mind - Sam had begged Dean to call him if this happened again, because he’s nerdy and devout and, boy, isn’t that a good combination and he’s been desperate to see actual angel wings - and Dean had tried really hard to scoff at him and pretend like it hadn’t been anything special, but, yeah.

He’s not calling Sam, though. It’s clear Cas is going through something, first of all, and Dean feels fiercely protective of him (worthy, parental feelings which have nothing to do with wanting to dip his tongue in Cas’ navel) and won’t have him displayed like a circus animal. Also, well, Sam _did_ get him stuck here, and he _did_ go to bed at nine thirty, so fuck him.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, more softly than he’d intended, and what he means is _Holy Hell, this is the most beautiful_ -

But Cas is pressing his hands on his face and doesn’t see him and doesn’t understand.

“This is - an abomination,” he says, his voice thick with repressed pain. “Lucifer -”

He doesn’t add anything else.

Dean remains still for another second and then - fuck it - moves forward on his hands and knees, crawling from the soft futon to the uneven tatami ground.

“It’s okay,” he says, stopping in front of Cas, catching his right wrist.

And then Cas’ eyes go blue-white - Dean sees the light through Cas’ fingers, automatically averts his gaze - Cas gives a soft hiss as his wings shudder and hundreds of tiny feathers burst out of them and remain floating over their heads.

Dean looks up, and the sight is so breathtaking - Cas’ wings are black and yet they seem to shine under the starlight, and it’s as if time itself has stopped around them - he goes and does something idiotic.

“God, I fucking love you,” he says, completely awed, and the next moment everything is gone and it’s just the two of them alone in an unfamiliar room and Cas is looking back at him now, his blue eyes still a bit too bright.

Dean licks his lips as he tries to come up with something - anything - to disguise what he’s just said; but, before he can even string a sentence together, Cas leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

And Sam can say whatever he wants - he just doesn’t get it, okay, because it’s not like Dean doesn’t want this, it’s just - it’s -

Dean still remembers the awkward drive out of Flint – that _Supernatural_ musical case had definitely been in the top ten of the most fucked up things he's ever been caught up in, and that is saying a lot - the way Sam had fidgeted; looked at him, then away.

“I know you don't want to talk about it,” he'd started, but Dean had cut him off.

“No, I don't. So drop it.”

“Dean -”

“I'm _serious_ , Sammy.”

Sam had shaken his head like some big, unhappy bearded collie.

“Just tell me you don't see it and I'll shut up,” he'd said, and Dean had turned up the volume of the radio even if it'd been a crappy station.

“God, you can be so pig-headed,” Sam had said, after the last chorus of _(You’re) Having my Baby_ had finally finished; and then he'd turned away from him, had spent the next two hours looking out of the window and clenching his jaw.

And, yes, later they'd had an argument about it - something brutal, vicious, which had gotten them thrown out of their motel room - only very long practice had allowed them to drive away in the Impala together, Dean with his knuckles bloody and ruined and Sam with a cut across his cheekbone and his hair caked with mud.

They'd never discussed it again.

Because, yeah, Sam doesn’t get it. Because it’s not that easy. Because Dean doesn’t know how to make this work - he’s never been with anyone for more than six months, and that had been Lisa, and God knows she’d been one breath away from throwing him out so many times, because Dean is messed up and high maintenance and that’s why everyone has always walked away, and Dean wants this, and he wants this to work, but he doesn’t know how, and he’s terrified he’ll fuck it up -

And if he doesn’t fuck it up - 

_You break everything you touch_.

\- _God_.

And this is why Dean can barely taste Cas, can only just feel the solid weight of him against his lips before he pulls back and scrambles to his feet.

“I - Cas, I -”

Fuck - on top of everything else, he’s half hard, and that must be painfully obvious in these douchey pants.

Shaking his head, Dean flees the room; he walks fast, his hands closed into fists, until he manages to get out of the stupid place. He collapses down on the wooden planks of the porch and lets his feet dangle over the rock garden, breathing hard.

Jesus _Christ_.

He can still feel Cas’ lips on his, and how is that even a _thing_?

(How is that _fair_?)

An unbidden, unwanted memory swims to the surface - that one evening in the Bunker with Charlie and Cas and Sam when they’d drank themselves silly and then had sort of watched _The Return of the King_ (with director’s commentary and everything). It had been Charlie’s idea, of course, and Dean can somehow still feel the weight of her legs in his lap - can see Sam, a quiet shadow in the corner - he and Cas had been completely sober through the night, Cas because their entire alcohol stock was simply not enough to get him even tipsy, and Sam because he’s Sam and he’s never known how to have fun.

He remembers Cas sitting down on the floor in front of the couch, his head just inches away from Dean’s hand.

Dean wanders and drowns in the memory of that night; and then he pulls back from it, sits forward, drapes himself over the railing and drops his head on his forearms.

_God help me_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t know whether it is a curse or a prayer.


	5. The Void and the Form

Today’s goal is to just show up. They’re not attempting to get into the Empty on their first try, and that’s because they’re not crazy people, but practiced, rational hunters who know how to do their fucking jobs.

And also, yeah, Dean has severely underestimated how hard it is to sit on the floor and do nothing.

The room around them is completely silent. If he glances to his right, Dean can spot Cas’ profile - Cas is perfect at this, of course, he’s just sitting there in his slacks and shirt like he’s made out of marble, his eyes that precise shade of focused and unfocused Dean is attempting to get (well: he _will_ attempt to get in a minute, once he stops staring at Cas).

Because the thing is, waking up was a traumatic, _what the fuck_ experience Dean could have done without. He’d seemingly been asleep for ten minutes when someone had run past him furiously shaking a huge bell and, before Dean had even understood where he was, the corridor on his left had become a steady line of people - fifteen or so - walking slowly towards the temple. Dean had just sat there in disbelief until he’d seen Sam and Cas at the very end of the group - Cas had not looked at him, and Sam had given him the glare of death.

And next, Dean had sat down on a black pillow and then - no one had explained, no one had said anything - just more bells, and now this silence.

_You’re not supposed to move_ , says Cas inside his head, and Dean almost jumps out of his skin.

_I’m not moving_ , he thinks, resentfully, and that is perfectly true.

_You’re looking around._

Dean sighs, closes his eyes.

_Don’t close your eyes. Just look in front of you, slightly downwards, and find something to anchor your gaze to._

And it’s remarkable how Cas only functions on two modes - wide-eyed _I don’t understand this reference_ idiot and fucking know-it-all - Mr _Read the Bible, Dean_ \- not that Dean is still (occasionally) thinking about that one time Cas walked into his dreams, or, possibly, into Bobby’s kitchen, and then proceeded to threaten the Hell out of him (and quite literally at that).

Not at all.

With another sigh, he opens his eyes again. Anchor his gaze - right. All that’s in front of him is a wooden wall, which means the best Dean can do is find a nail head and zone in on it.

_What am I supposed to think about?_ he asks, silently, and he can almost feel Cas’ ripple of amusement lapping against his own brain.

_Nothing_ , Cas says. _That’s the point._

_Yeah, but - how do you think about nothing?_

_Just breathe. And stop talking to me._

_You started it_ , thinks Dean, a bit pissed, but now he’s unsettled, because for this to work, Cas will have to dig inside their heads, and it’s been a long time since he’s read Dean’s mind last, and Dean doesn’t want him in there, because there’s too much of him already, and -

_Just breathe_ , Cas said, and so Dean sits up a bit straighter and breathes.

He breathes in and out and he tries, and fails, to control all these things that are going through his mind (whatever happened last night and what happens if they can’t find Lucifer and fucking hell, his nose itches and that _Death Note_ episode he once saw which had been almost as good as the manga and _Oh my God I will totally die if I have to do this again_ ) and four hours later he’s hurting everywhere and about to blow his brains out.

There’s another bell.

People stretch a bit; stand up.

And another bell.

People bow, start to head outside in an orderly line.

Dean winces at the feeling in his legs, then follows Cas as they all head to the main room for breakfast.

Which is white rice and brown soup and some weird, leafy things. And is also taken in total silence. And kneeling.

This is _not_ going to work.

Sam never looks at him, though, which means (let’s hope so) that Cas didn’t tell him about last night. Dean chews on his rice until there is another bell, and then some chanting; and now, mercifully, they’re sort of free. Until three in the afternoon, that is, but still.

“I feel really energized,” Sam says, as they make their way back to their rooms, and Dean wants to kill him.

“Your mind was very quiet,” Cas agrees, unconsciously adding his own name to Dean’s death list.

“What did you think, Dean? Maybe we can try tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” says Dean, mulishly, as he stops in front of the room. “It’s just - it’s weird.”

“It’s the only safe way for any of us to experience the Empty and find Lucifer,” says Cas, without looking at him, and Dean shakes his head.

The truth is, he’s downright terrified. He can’t empty his mind, or whatever he’s supposed to be doing, and if he doesn’t pull this off -

When he looks up again, Sam has disappeared. Which is not helpful.

“I don’t know how to not think,” he says, hoping this will keep the conversation away from That Other Thing.

Cas frowns a bit, as if working it out.

“Perfect meditation is an art people learn over many years,” he admits. “But all I need is one moment of non-awareness. If you can give me even a few seconds, it should work.”

Dean passes his hand on the back of his head, uncertain. He looks at Cas’ lips, then away, both hoping and fearing that Cas will mention what happened between them.

“Why don’t you work in the garden today? Physical work helps to empty the mind.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

There is this huge thing in the empty space between them; but, then again, it’s been there for years. Cas is so attuned to Dean’s soul he’s probably known Dean was in love with him before Dean had even put the pieces together himself; and that is saying a lot, because Dean, well - Dean may be an idiot, but he’s known for a while.

The fact they kissed - sort of - doesn’t change the equation, except Dean now wants to touch Cas in such a primal, desperate way it’s probably illegal in three states.

“I’ll get started on the new flower beds,” says Cas, after a full minute of silence, and Dean shrugs.

“I’ll join you later. Just need to lie down for a minute.”

“Yes, I expect you did not sleep well,” says Cas, in what could be bitchy superiority in someone else; and then he walks away.

Dean steps into the room, but before he can even lie down, Sam pushes his way inside.

“Nice pants,” he says, and Dean straightens up to look at him.

“What?”

Sam just gestures, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Dean twists around until he can see what Sam is pointing out - and, yep, that’s a huge, pink, glittering lotus flower stamped all over his ass.

“Oh, come on,” he growls, standing up and reaching into the shelves for the other pair of pants he bought; and when it turns out they have the same symbol in purple, he hisses in annoyance.

“Shopping in the women’s section?”

“Shut up. It was a sport store.”

Dean passes his nails on the thing, a bit absently, wondering if it will come off at all; and then, feeling Sam’s eyes still boring on him, he gives up.

“Yeah, okay, it happened again,” he says, darkly.

“The wings?” asks Sam, way too excitedly for something which is actually _killing_ Cas, and Dean scoffs at him.

“Yes, the wings. And it’s not a good thing, okay? So get that smile off your face.”

“I’m sorry, I know - it’s just - this is not a _complete_ bad thing, you know? Those are his _actual_ wings. All we need to do is to get Lucifer’s imprint off them.”

And how, exactly, can Sam be this goddamn optimistic all the goddamn time? Dean has seen his brother broken and done, of course he has, because they’ve had some fun times and all, but mostly Sam is this gigantic puppy of hope and Dean needs to stop thinking about this before his God-given irritation turns into (irrational, childish) jealousy. 

“Yeah, about that - do we think Lucifer will just, what, do us a solid and heal Cas out of the kindness of his heart? Or do you have an actual plan?”

Because, yeah, it’s not like Lucifer had been happy to be cast down in the Empty in the first place. It had taken quite a few Reapers to do it, and the fact he’d left this thing behind - his imprint, or something, all over Cas’ wings - that isn’t exactly promising.

Also, well, it’s Lucifer.

“I’ll talk to him,” says Sam, and clearly now he’s gone from glass half-full to _glass half-full of LSD, because I just drank the other half_.

Dean just looks at him.

“I’m still working on it, but I have a plan,” Sam insists, but by now there’s almost a flashing light all over his forehead spelling _Warning: Severe Bullshit Ahead_ , so.

“Maybe we should -” tries Dean, but, well, Sam knows him way too well.

“We’re not involving _Crowley_. This is fucked up enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that, okay? God, you’re _obsessed_ ,” he says, but Sam just looks at him.

_Jesus_ , why do they all think he enjoys such a bromance with the fucking king of Hell? So, okay, they _did_ hang out when Dean was a demon. And a bit when he wasn’t. And if they survive the week, if Cas is okay, Dean is sort of planning to go down to Topeka for a poker tournament - Crowley _did_ invite him, after all, and the entry fee was bloody expensive, it would be rude to -

Okay, maybe he _does_ see it. A bit.

Still, it doesn’t change anything. Crowley doesn’t want to have anything to do with Lucifer. As far as he’s concerned, things are probably done and he can go back to get massages and trick douchebags into contracts.

No way he’ll want to be involved; not even for Dean’s sake. Demon, and all that.

“There’s another way to - purify - Cas’ wings, you know,” Dean says warily, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“We can’t _kill_ Lucifer, Dean,” he says; and then he adds, hurriedly. “And it’s not - you know how much I hate him - it’s not about that. But killing an _archangel_ , Dean -”

“Yeah, I know.”

There’s nothing around which has enough juice for the job. Not anymore.

And Sam has said from the start he has a plan, and he’s most definitely honest and hard-working and much smarter than Dean, so.

“Well, I need to sleep a couple of hours,” Dean says, in the end. “Just - go stare at the rocks, or something.”

Sam does take a step back then, but he also hesitates, and his face sort of softens and hardens at the same time, as if implying that Dean is being an idiot for understandable reasons and Sam can help him through it.

“Dean, what happened last night? Did you sleep on that porch?”

“See you later,” Dean says, and he slides the door close on Sam’s face; which, admittedly, is nowhere near as satisfying as slamming it shut, but, yeah, whatever.


	6. Definitely Not Police Business

Dean has been asleep for all of two minutes (probably: that’s a generous estimate) when his phone rings and he wakes up with a start and panics, first because he’s forgotten where he is, and then because he’s not supposed to have a phone here and that’s like, the only rule and he really doesn’t want to be beaten over the head with a cane or something. So he turns around on the (surprisingly comfortable) futon and grabs the thing without even opening his eyes.

“Agent Jagger,” he forces out, clearing his throat, and a woman laughs.

“Yeah, you wish.” 

Dean breathes out in relief and falls back on the pillow. It’s just Jody, and she sounds cheerful (and very awake, damn her), which means nobody’s hurt and nobody’s dying.

Well: nobody _else_ , that is.

“Hey, I’m way cooler than Jagger,” he says. “I hunt monsters for a living.”

“Not anymore, you don’t. What’s this I hear about you and Sam becoming monks?”

Dean makes a sound which has too many consonants inside it to be an actual word, and Jody laughs again.

“Did he ask you to call me?”

It’s a wild guess, of course, because when is Sam ever interfering in his life? No, Sam is good and wise and he understands that Dean is a grown-up and can make his own decisions, thank you very much.

“No,” says Jody, and she’s so good it almost doesn’t sound like a question.

“ _Goddammit_ , Sammy,” Dean says, just as Sam slides the door open and pokes his head in.

_Is that Jody?_ he mouths, looking way too pleased with himself.

Dean rolls his eyes at him.

“Look, he’s worried about you, okay? Both of you, actually.”

“Yeah, well. We’re doing fine.”

“Fine? Sam said Castiel is dying.”

She waits for Dean to say something, but Dean can’t. Sam must have seen the expression on his face, because he walks in, slides the door shut and sits down against the wall.

“I haven’t told Claire yet, but,” starts Jody, and then she hesitates. “Well, Dean - if it’s - if it’s true, we _should_ tell her. You owe her that. Saying goodbye is -”

Oh, fucking _hell_.

“Nobody’s saying goodbye,” he says firmly, sitting up and hissing at the stab of pain piercing the back of his brain.

“So what’s going on, then?”

And Dean is fucking tired to be the one in charge, because the truth is, he’s been winging it all this time and he doesn’t actually _know_ anything, and so he tells her. He tells her about Lucifer possessing Cas, about the curse he left behind. He tells her about Lucifer being cast down in the Empty -

“The _Empty_? That’s a catchy name. Don’t they have a whole team of people they pay to come up with these things?” she asks, and Dean snorts.

“Well, I’m sure it sounds better in Enochian or some shit,” he answers, though Jody, of course, only catches half the joke.

“But is that - Hell or something?”

“It’s -” Dean tries to remember what Cas had said, exactly, but it had been so nerdy (five-syllables words, all of them) he just can’t. “It’s like Hell for angels, yeah. Like, Michael went mad when he was in the Cage, and he - he offed himself,” he says, trying, and mostly succeeding, to not feel guilty about it, because Michael had been a right dick and he totally deserved it, “so now he’s there. And Lucifer, because he’s Lucifer.”

“Sounds fun,” says Jody, and Dean hears the noise of pans in the background - here she is, he thinks, a normal person starting on some kind of lunch for some kind of family. “How are you getting there, then?”

“Cas can’t get in, but he can - hitch a ride with us, or something. We’d go in as - minds, or souls. I don’t really know, to be honest.”

“That sounds safe,” says Jody, in mock approval, and next comes the sound of onions sizzling on what must be full-fat butter.

Dean thinks about their next meal - most probably brown rice and brown soup and green leaves - and sighs.

“Sam says you may have to kill Lucifer?” she asks next, the same way someone else would ask about weekend plans.

“The question is how,” Dean says, turning around so he doesn’t have to look at Sam, because fuck Sam and his stupid plans - and then Cas appears in the courtyard, and now he’s dressed in full monk robes, all black and mysterious, and all rational thought is sucked right out of Dean's head.

God, Cas _kissed_ him. Twelve hours ago.

And if Dean had stayed in the room, stuff would have happened.

All kind of hot, dirty -

“Do you want my advice?” Jody says, and Dean almost has a heart attack as he wonders if he’s been blabbing about sex out loud - and then he realizes that, Jesus, no, he didn’t do that, Jody is just being normal and friendly and Sam could use some normality and friendliness as well; as so, a bit unwillingly, he turns the speaker on.

“When don’t I ever,” he mumbles, but he’s hoping this will be actual advice, and a better plan than the fucked up thing they have.

“People die,” Jody says, bluntly, and, boy, Dean was so _not_ expecting this.

He looks up at Sam, but Sam is refusing to look at him.

“What?”

“People _die_ , Dean. And that’s okay.”

“So, generally when people say they want to help what they mean is that they actually _want_ to help, Jody,” Dean says, and there’s such an edge to his voice that Sam glares at him.

Dean ignores him.

“Sweetheart, listen,” Jody starts, and while Dean basks a bit in the endearment, he’s still too fucking angry to really feel its warmth. “After my family died, I thought that was it. That I would never be anything again. And I’m not talking about relationships, or my job - I mean _anything_. I thought I would never be a _person_ again. After the first few days, I couldn’t even cry. I would just sit there, and thank God for Bobby, because -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, and it doesn’t matter if he’s being rude, because he’s not thinking about Bobby fucking Singer on top of everything else.

Also, it’s sort of worth it for the look of pure outrage Sam shoots at him. All those years honing and refining the perfect bitch face - it’s only fair that Sam should get to use it from time to time, and Dean is a generous soul.

“Anyway, it’s _normal_. It's what happens,” Jody says, and that is a very brave rally; then again, she’s used to Dean’s suave conversations skills, so.

“So we should have closed Hell, and let you die? That what you’re saying?” asks Dean, and this time, okay, maybe he’s gone too far. 

Sam’s eyes bulge so far out of his face he will very probably die from it; he makes a grab for the phone, but Dean swats his overgrown hand away.

There is a moment of silence at the other end of the line.

“That was your choice, Dean. Not mine. I don’t know what would have happened if you’d gone ahead and completed the rituals. Maybe things would have been better. Maybe not.”

She’s so rational and normal and everything they’re not that Dean starts to feel a bit guilty.

“Jody, I didn’t mean -” he says, finally giving in to Sam’s furious gesturing.

“I know. I’m just saying - you have to believe things turn out for the best, that’s all.”

Yeah, right. Hard to see how not closing the gates of Hell turned out for the best. Or how letting Cas die will turn out for the best.

“For what’s worth, I’m happy to be around, of course. And maybe it’s okay Hell is still open, as well.”

“How would _that_ be okay?”

Jody ignores that, and suddenly there is a slight tugging in Dean’s stomach - the kind of feeling he gets when people are lying to him.

“Anyway, about Castiel. Dean, I understand why you’re fighting so hard. I remember how you told me that you -”

Dean presses the speaker button so fast he probably melted it, and Sam, to his credit, pretends not to have noticed, and leans back against the wall instead, staring serenely up at the ceiling.

“- feel guilty about what happened to him, and you think you have something to do with it, but -”

“That’s because I fucking did.”

“- those were _his_ choices, Dean. And he’s happy with them.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“Dean, I’ve seen the two of you together. Remember that ghoul case? I don’t need to be a police officer, or even a woman, to know what’s going on.”

Dean hesitates, licks his lips.

“Then you get it. Why I have to do this.”

He glances at Sam, but Sam is still pretending he has no idea what Dean and Jody are now talking about (as if this isn’t the same guy who once cornered him in a motel room and shouted at him that _Jesus, Dean, so you love him, so what?_ and isn’t that a warm and comforting memory).

“Dean,” Jody says in the end, and then she sighs. “Just don’t die, okay?”

“Don’t worry. Sam’s coming with. Won’t let anything happen to me.”

“Sam’s going in as well? Put him back on the line,” Jody says, and now her voice is not even a voice anymore, but something you could drop a litmus paper in and then watch as the thing colours up and then burst into flames.

“For you,” says Dean, sweetly, and then he gets to enjoy Sam’s face going from relaxed contentment to guilt and resentment and _But Mom_ in about one second flat.

“Yes,” he keeps saying, his head hanging low. “I know. Yes.”

When he’s finally allowed to hang up, Dean has stretched back down on the bed, his arms behind his head, and he’s beginning to consider this day may not be so bad after all.

“So, you can’t come out and play?” he asks, and Sam just rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, just grow the hell up,” he says, but there’s no real malice in him, because he’s wrong, and he knows it.


	7. The Lord Giveth, the Lord Fucketh Off

They bicker about Jody’s advice for about five minutes before Sam starts saying that, well, _Jody_ did _make the time to call them so they should at least_ and Dean replies that, _Yeah, like you didn’t call her and beg her to call me_ , and Sam rolls his eyes because _That’s not the point, Dean_ \- and it turns out the point is such a pointy point it’s enough for Dean to finally sit up and God, why does no one tell him _anything_?

“So Jody was cooking because tonight’s _date_ night? And she’s dating who?” Dean asks, opening his hands in a _what the fuck_ gesture and staring at Sam, because, _honestly_.

“Whom.”

“ _Sammy_.”

“You heard me the first time. And, Jesus, I don’t want to _gossip_ , okay? I thought you knew. I mean, you’re best friends with the guy!”

“Am _not_.”

“Dean, you went to a _spa_ with him. For a whole weekend,” Sam says in exasperation, and, okay, that’s unfair and only partially true.

“I didn’t know it was a _spa_. It was supposed to be a pool tournament.”

“Yeah, that’s why you came back on Sunday evening smelling like Little Trees and shame?”

“I didn’t -”

“Cas was furious.”

“He wasn’t,” Dean says, because that’s clearly a lie and Sam is _such_ a drama queen.

“Okay, he wasn’t. But he still sulked for three full days.”

Dean opens his mouth and is about to come back to the main subject, because why the hell would Jody be dating Crowley of all people (fucking _Crowley_ ) and why didn’t anyone tell him and for _Chrissakes_ , when the phone rings again.

And Sam fucking _answers_ , even if it’s totally Dean’s phone and he has no right to do that.

“Yes,” he says, and then he listens carefully, waving his free arm at Dean to tell him to keep quiet and just wait.

“I see,” he says, after another minute; and then, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

And then he hangs up, and his mouth becomes this line barely visible on what is a very pissed off face.

“So that was Chuck,” he says.

“ _Chuck_ Chuck?”

“Yes, _Chuck_ Chuck. Do you know any other Chucks?”

Dean counts on his fingers.

“There’s that friend of Dad’s in Idaho, and that journalist who wanted to know about ghosts, and the kid who tried to sell his soul to Abbadon, and remember that one time we were in New York -”

“Dean, do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Am I supposed to?”

They stare at each other for ten seconds before Sam bites his lip in that way he does when he really doesn’t want to laugh; and then he looks down at the phone in his hand, and sobers up.

“So that was Chuck,” he says, again, because this is what they used to do as kids - just rewind conversations until they got them right.

Dean doesn’t want to smile, so he doesn’t.

“Yeah? And?”

“And he thinks he may be possessed by God. Or be God. Or something.”

“Yeah, and?” asks Dean, again, because this is not news.

“Jesus, Dean, you _knew_?”

“Knew what? The guy’s a nut job. He’s not _God_ , okay? That’s insane. What did he say?”

Sam looks like he wants to argue the point, but instead, he very wisely gives up.

“He says _Don’t do it_.”

“ _Don’t do it_. That’s it?”

“ _Don’t do it, you fucking idiot_ ,” says Sam, dutifully.

“That wasn’t very nice of him.”

“He also says we’ll all die if we go through with it.”

Dean pretends he’s not fazed by it, and there is a horrible, horrible corner of his mind which actually _isn’t_ fazed by it, because all of them dying is somehow better than only Cas dying, even if, on second thoughts, he would feel bad for Sam. 

Sort of.

Because, Jesus, how could Sam not _tell_ him about Jody dating Crowley? _Crowley_ , for fuck's sake.

“So you don’t come,” he says. “Problem solved.”

Sam looks at him very strangely, and Dean realizes what he’s just admitted to, and, Christ. No _way_ Sam is ever going to let him forget that.

On the other hand, if Chuck is right his current lifespan is about one day, so.

“Was it a generic end of the world prophecy, or do we have anything else to go on?”

“You die first,” Sam says, almost politely, because he’s still looking at Dean like he wants - and, yeah, that’s not happening.

“Been there, done that,” Dean says; and then he gets up, walks out of the room.

“Wait! Shouldn’t we talk about this? Come up with a different plan, or something?”

And, good Lord, now Sam is actually tugging at the leg of Dean’s jeans and looking up at him like this giant puppy and - nope.

“Look, it’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” says Sam, but at least he’s getting up now. “Cas wants to do this now, so we kind of need to be sure -”

“Now? Why?”

And it’s not like Dean is scared, okay? It’s just - he’s known from the start this was a stupid idea, and that there is a good chance either himself or Cas will actually _die_ in that place - because, come on, jumping into Angel Purgatory and having a chat with Lucifer - that must be in third place on the Very Bad Ideas list, right after Napoleon’s _Hey, let’s invade Russia in the winter_ plan and Hitler’s _You know what? Let’s invade Russia in the winter again because the first time we had so much fun_. So, yeah, they’re pretty much doomed, and Dean had hoped he’d have the chance to -

“Dude, don’t think about _sex_ when I’m standing right here.”

“Nobody _told_ you to be here. This is _my_ room. And also, I wasn’t.”

“Right,” Sam says, and he _could_ have a point, so Dean lets it go. “What did you two fight about last night, anyway?” he adds, and he clearly thinks he’s cunningly tricking Dean into admitting that not only he _was_ thinking about sex, he was thinking about sex with _Cas_ , but Dean lets that go as well, because apparently he’ll be dead in three hours, so what’s the point?

“None of your goddamn business. And why do we have to do that now, anyway?”

“Cas said so.”

“We’re not ready.”

“You mean, you’re not ready.”

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Dean -”

“Did Chuck really say we’re going to die?”

Sam had been reaching out for Dean, but, at that, he changes his mind, lets his hand fall again.

“Yes,” he says, quietly.

Dean looks up at him, then away. The monastery is very, very quiet around them - just a space of white walls and dark wood and light.

“Well, he doesn’t know everything,” Dean says in the end, very firmly, but Sam doesn’t look convinced.

“Still, it seems -”

“And what the hell is he doing, butting in like that?”

“He’s a prophet - or God, maybe, I’m sure that more than qualifies him to -”

“No, come on. He never said anything about -” Dean opens his arms, trying to pick an example, because, really, the list goes on for fucking miles, “the Leviathans, or the Mark of Cain, or even Amara, and now - why is he calling _now_?”

Sam takes a look at his watch and steps out of the room, sliding the door close and plunging them into a sort of half darkness.

“Maybe now things are more dangerous. Maybe this time we’re really dying. All of us.”

“Yeah, or maybe it’s a glaring plot hole.”

“A what?”

“Look, I’m just saying - if he’d just called to warn us about Abaddon, or about Cain - none of that other shit would have happened.”

“Still, we should probably -”

Before Sam can finish his sentence, the fucking bell rings again, and when Dean turns towards the sound, he can see people starting to assemble in front of the temple; and, standing right in the middle, still in his new black clothes, is Cas, and he’s looking right at Dean, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe, because it doesn’t matter what this thing between them is, and whether they can make it work or not at all. No, whatever is wrong with Cas, Dean will fix it, and consequences be damned.

“No. We’re doing this,” he says, walking away from Sam. “We’re doing this right _now_.”


	8. Interlude: at All Times, and for Adversity

Sam can’t even remember a time where he hasn’t done this - fallen in line behind his brother and trusted him to know what is to be done.

Although, well, sometimes it’s not about trust, but hope - hope that Dean is not quite as suicidal as he looks like and that he actually plans to make it out alive.

Because, right now, as he watches his brother’s back straighten up, only slightly, as Dean comes to a stop near Cas in the hallway - as he watches Cas shift a bit closer to Dean, and do it instinctively, because this is what they are, two people who just need to be close and yet won’t admit it because they’re massive, massive idiots - Sam is just about sure Chuck is right. That they shouldn’t do it, and they’re all going to die.

But the thing is, it doesn’t matter.

Dying is not the end of the world.

In fact, Sam knows perfectly well he should have been dead years ago (his own father had first given the order, and he hadn’t been wrong, considering), so all this has been, really, is borrowed time.

Even now, Sam doesn’t understand, exactly, who or what Cas is; unlike Dean, he’s always believed in God, and he’s still convinced, as he’d been the very first time he’d seen Cas, in a darkened and dreary motel room, that this is it - that angels are the closest thing to God they’re ever going to experience, and it’s okay, because the real thing, if it even exists (and what is Chuck even going on about?) would probably blow their heads clean off their necks - would be even more unknowable and strange than his brother’s angel, this creature now glancing at Dean’s lips, then away.

Sam looks again at Dean’s restrained body language and finally understands what it is, exactly, that he’s planning to do. That thing he’s known he would do ever since they’d learned about Cas’ sickness.

Because, well - Dean has been asking him about his plan, over and over, but Sam couldn’t tell him, because there _was_ no plan. Still isn’t. Not as such. All they have to do is find Lucifer, and then -

Sam feels the beginning of a dangerous, sick thing uncurling inside his stomach, because his mind doesn’t remember what Lucifer is like (not completely, and, sometimes, not at all), but his _body_ does. And Lucifer is exactly like this - cold and warm and growing ever heavier inside Sam’s chest and -

Dean would say no.

(Even if this kills Cas, and when he thinks about it, and what it means, Sam can’t bear it.)

Sam knows this.

But, well. What else can they offer Lucifer?

 _The only person who has screwed things up more consistently than you is me_ , says Cas’ voice inside Sam’s mind, and Sam pushes it away, because Cas was right, and it still doesn’t matter.

They can deal with Lucifer later. Sam once swore to himself he was never going to let down his brother again, and he won’t. And if that means being possessed again -

(A flash of pain; laughter; cold fingers on his cheek.)

\- it’s still worth it, because, whatever Dean says, without Cas his brother is not -

Squaring his shoulders, Sam walks forward - people are now forming a silent line in front of the temple door, all of them looking accepting and serene except for Dean and Cas, who’re standing at the very end of the group, very close to each other, and seem to be having some kind of whispered argument.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Dean is now saying, and Sam doesn’t know whether he should pretend he can’t hear him or not, because lately, the two of them are not even making an effort anymore, and Sam feels plenty invisible around them without having to try. “Look, he probably meant we’ll have to bring Lucifer topside again -”

“Dean, we can’t do that.”

“Yeah? What else can we offer him?”

“We shouldn’t offer him anything at all.”

There is a slight pause, then. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean’s hand move to Cas’ arm, then fall down again.

“I am not walking away,” Dean says next, low and dangerous. “So you’d better be fucking on board with this.”

“We can’t kill Lucifer,” Cas insists. “And we can’t make a deal with him. I agreed to try and get you to the Empty, but if Chuck thinks -”

“I don’t give a _shit_ about what Chuck thinks,” Dean says, and, luckily, his slightly raised voice is drowned out by the sound of the bells.

The people standing in front of them start to walk forward, and Dean does grab Cas’ arm this time, and his voice gets so low Sam almost can’t hear it.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave again,” he says, and the expression on Cas’ face - Sam has to look away.

“I promised I would try.”

The corridor is now empty except for the three of them. Sam really doesn’t want to interrupt what seems to be a very important conversation, but they’re out of time.

“If we’re doing this, we’d better go,” he says, and Dean turns on him.

“ _You_ are not doing anything. You’re not _coming_ , period.”

“I am the only leverage you have with Lucifer, Dean.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Sam doesn’t want to explain, and he doesn’t _need_ to explain, because what little blood Dean’s face still had disappears as the meaning of Sam’s words sinks in.

“You’re not doing that. I won’t _let_ you,” Dean says, low and dangerous, and the bells ring a second time, and there are so many things Sam wants to say -

( _You’re my brother; of course I’m doing it._

_You gave up everything for me, and if you think I won’t do the same for you -_

_Dean, I_ -)

“Let’s fix Cas first,” Sam says, sidestepping Dean and moving towards the temple’s door. “We can deal with everything else later.”

“ _Sammy_ -”

Sam ignores him. He nods at Cas, once, and then he walks in.

They are the last ones. Everyone else is already sitting on the round zazen cushions, and sensei Alan - well, it’s not like he looks pissed, but he’s definitely waiting for them to just come in and settle down, and this is what they do - Cas frowning to himself, Dean looking furious.

Sam has barely made himself comfortable, however, when he feels Cas’ gaze on him. He knows, because Dean let it slip, that Cas is able to communicate telepathically with Dean - and that means, not only those starstruck looks and those bouts of feeling Dean seems to have from time to time, like knowing where Cas is before he sees him, but actual conversations, with words and sentences; and he also knows Cas can’t, or won’t, do the same with him, and that’s why he catches Cas’ eyes and nods and tries to make his soul as determined as he can, because Dean is wrong - destiny can be changed, they’ve changed it before, and as for what happens next, well. What has to come will come, and they’ll deal with it when it does. If the only way forward is to let Lucifer out, let him come out. They’ve defeated him twice before. They can do it again. And if that means Lucifer has to hitch a ride inside him -

The bells ring a third time, and Sam closes his eyes, pushes the thought away.

He will not think about Lucifer, not now, because Dean needs him.

(Lucifer’s soft voice, all over his skin and soul: _You are mine, Sam. I am the only one who understands. I will love you more than anyone ever could._ )

He’s ready to give himself up, and it doesn’t matter how hard he’s worked to be someone other than himself; someone whose sense of self moves beyond being Lucifer’s vessel.

(An empty thing. An abomination.)

Not that Sam believes in destiny, after all; not anymore. Growing up, he’d been way too present inside himself - pushing against his very skin, struggling to grow up, to be the person who, this is how he’d felt whenever he’d to watch Dad and Dean drive away and Sully pop into existence in whatever dreary room they were staying in, he was really destined to be. He’d always imagined that as a Great Warrior of some kind -

(And isn’t that ironic, considering.)

\- someone better than Dean, even. Because, as a child, Sam had mostly resented Dean’s skill and nerve and apparent ability to never give a shit about anything, but he’d also been desperate to become exactly like Dean. He’d never given much thought to what it was that Dean really did with Dad, though, because he’d been a weird, daydreaming child, happy to sit in a corner with his books and ignore the world around him - until the moment it had all gone to hell and everything had changed, that is.

God, Sam remembers it so sharply it hurts. He’d been seven, and he even knows the date - June 4th - because it had been Mrs Solomon’s birthday, and Mrs Solomon was always kind and she smelled like vanilla and oranges and she’d been Sam’s favourite person in the whole world and yet that day had gone so, so wrong.

It had all started innocently enough - the whole class had been planning a secret party for her (not that a bunch of second graders can really keep a secret from their teacher, and also - thinking back on it, it had ended up being a small, sweaty, messy thing which had probably kept the poor woman from her afternoon break) - and Sam was supposed to bring a present.

(That’s it. A seven-year-old getting a present for his teacher. Just that.

And yet.)

Not that anyone had _asked_ him anything, because he’d only been in that school for a month by then, but Sam had really felt he could _belong_ here - a sleepy little town in New Mexico - and Mrs Solomon was awesome and Sam had wanted to get her something special. He’d heard some girls talking about fancy flowers, orchids or even birds of paradise, and that had seemed perfect (he’d never even seen an orchid, and the word sounded a bit funny, but bird of paradise - that was really, really _promising_ ). He’d badgered Dean for a week (he remembers Dad as he always remembers Dad - as a dark and broody presence moving around them like a ghost - his appearances and disappearances mostly coinciding with the opening times of the local watering holes, though Sam, of course, had been too young to put two and two together) and Dean had promised he’d do his best. But, well, Dad was keeping him busy (with what, Sam hadn’t known until later), and in the end, he’d forgotten. And the thing is, Sam had been a kid as well - he’d only remembered the night before (June 3rd; a Monday) - had suddenly jumped out of bed, ran to Dean’s side in alarm.

And Dean, well, had managed to be Dean for that entire conversation - his hand still picking at the bag of crisps with insulting slowness, his eyes mostly focused on Tom Selleck as _Magnum P.I._ flashed its exciting detective cases from the crappy old TV - and yet, after Sam had almost reduced himself to tears, he’d scoffed and shaken his head and gone out.

And, God, next _Dad_ had come back - June was never a good period for him, because he and Mum were married on the 12th and he got even weirder than usual when the anniversary came up (which, Sam now allows, had been the one understandable and forgivable part of some very disappointing parenting).

“Where’s your brother?” he’d barked, hand still on the handle of the motel door, and then -

How can it be so clear inside his mind when so many things have gone forever? Sam wonders. So many memories of Jess are missing - God, he can’t even remember the first time he’s seen her, or the moment he knew he was in love with her - there’s whole years of school which may as well never have existed at all - but those two days - because Sam even remembers the quick play of expressions on Dean’s face when he’d finally come back (the childish relief of getting away with theft, and the anticipation because he’d done right by Sammy and the sudden sense of threat and guilt when he’d seen Dad sitting down on his bed, staring at the door, waiting for him to come back). Dean had clenched his jaw, put his bounty down on the table (a big bouquet, a bit past its bloom, and a fancy-looking silver frame with spirals in the corners) and then stood in front of Dad, his back very straight, his head bowed, his hands clenched behind his back, as Dad had taught them both, as Dad went on and on about what a stupid thing he’d just done and how he expected more from him and _Never, ever leave your brother alone_ and _Boy, I raised you better than this_ and _If your mother could see you now, what would she think?_

From his vantage point (the other bed) - Sam could see Dean’s hands clenching within each other so tightly his fingers were bloodless; and when he’d found he couldn’t look at that anymore, he’d turned his head, focused on how the flowers’ stems were dripping on the motel’s carpet - a hypnotic, yet unsatisfying rhythm - something without sound or reason, which couldn’t mask the fact that, once again, Dean had been in trouble because of him.

And then things had gotten worse.

That June had been the hottest on record; a month of scorching heat and sweat and no shadow at all and green lawns wilting into nothingness.

Sam had slept late and badly, distracted by Dean’s unusual fussing - they were sharing a bed, and Dean kept turning and moving the pillow around - and by the annoyingly hot climate. And then they’d been late for school, both of them still half asleep when Dad had herded them out, their hair sticking up and their clothes already too heavy on their bodies (7 am, 96 degrees, going on 200).

And Sam had forgotten the gifts - he’d only remembered during the morning break, had considered, and discarded, the possibility to walk back to get them (the motel had been too far away) - had had a fight with Debra Johnson (well, fight - he’d been embarrassingly close to tears, truth be told), insisting that he hadn’t forgotten, that he’d gotten Mrs Solomon a gift and left it home -

“Home?” Debra had sneered, her ponytail swishing as she turned to look at the others. “We all know you don’t _have_ a home. Susie’s mom told _my_ mom that you live down at the _Budget Ranch_ , and that your Dad doesn’t even work.”

“It’s not _true_.”

Even now, as he tries to breathe in, and then out, and ignore the faint smell of incense, the quiet sound of a dozens other people breathing in, then out around him - even now Sam cringes thinking back at that moment. It had mattered so much, for some reason. That yes, his Dad _did_ work too, even if Sam didn’t know what, exactly, he did for a living.

“He works with my brother,” he’d said, and Debra had laughed.

“Your brother is _eleven_ ,” she’d said. “He goes in the same class as Susie’s brother, right, Susie? He doesn’t _work_.”

And it’s stupid to even say it, but Sam had suddenly realized that she was right. That Dean wasn’t much older than he was. That he was indeed the same age as Peter Hutchins, Susie’s brother - Sam had seen him in the playground once - an underwhelming kid with spectacles and spots all over his nose.

Sam closes his eyes, opens them again.

It had been a constant theme of his childhood that, when things seemed to be at their absolute worst, they got even worse, and that day had been no exception. Mrs Solomon’s party had come and gone, and then two thirty had come and gone, and Sam had found himself alone by the gates, under the scorching sun, because Dad had forgot. Or so Sam had thought. It had taken him forty minutes to walk back, sweat dripping down his back, his feet getting all blistery in the old tennis shoes he was wearing, and for the whole, uncomfortable way, Sam had been thinking about it - had been getting angrier and angrier - because other kids had moms who bought stuff for them, and not brothers who had to go and steal (because Sam was seven, not stupid: he’d known exactly where those flowers and that frame had come from) - and it wasn’t _fair_ -

And then he’d opened the motel room, and -

Dean had been lying down on the bed, his face completely bloodless, his eyes fixed and staring, and Sam had been quite, quite sure Dean was _dead_. So sure his heart had actually, physically stopped beating for a full five seconds.

“Dean?” he’d whispered, but Dean hadn’t even blinked.

He’d been just lying there, staring at the ceiling, his arm hanging half off the bed, his tee-shirt soaked with blood.

“Sammy?”

Dad had suddenly appeared from the bathroom, and there were so many things Sam had been wanting to shout at him - and now none of them was even remotely important.

“What are you doing here? Why are you not in school?”

Sam had been pushed out of the room, into that small, dry thing that passed for a garden at the _Budget Ranch_ ; he’d just sat there, on the cracked tiles, his eyes fixed on the curtain of their room - he’d fancied he’d heard, once of twice, Dean cry out, but it was hard to say. The guys in the room next to theirs always had the radio on too loud, and, for the first time in weeks, Sam hadn’t minded.

 _Don’t do it_ ; the words hang dry and dangerous inside his mind, and Sam can’t help but focus on them, because now he’s seven again and it isn’t fair and yet he can’t let go of it - he still remembers what it’d been like - he’d helped Dad to strip the bed, after, to push the white sheets (stained with dirt and blood) into a garbage bag and as he’d stared at it - just rubbish, something which would soon have been burned and forgotten about - he’d suddenly wanted to be like Dean again, and this time he’d wanted to be like Dean not so he could tickle Dean back or be the one to decide what to eat and when - this time he’d wanted to be Dean so he could be strong and good and protect his brother - so that nothing like that would ever happen again.

But, of course, nothing would ever be enough. After Dean had finally told him, later that month, what it was that he and Dad did, Sam had read and read and trained and trained; and yet couldn’t stop Dean from getting hurt (because Dean had still got hurt; Dean had still _died_ ). And this is why Sam breathes in one more time, and when he breathes out he pushes it all out - his terror of Lucifer, his deep fear of being possessed again, of losing himself (his own hands beating Dean into a pulp; his own hands killing Kevin) before allowing himself to glance at Dean, whose profile is only just visible beyond Cas’ focused gaze.

His brother is looking at the wall, very fixedly, but Sam can see him fussing, just a bit (his knees only just moving, his tongue wetting his lips) and something bigger than fear crashes down upon him: a deep, dangerous, scorching wave of love. Because this is his brother, and his best friend, and everything he ever had and will ever have; for all times, and in adversity.

And Sam will not let him down.

He closes his eyes to centre himself, then opens them again, and starts breathing; emptying his mind.

# ;

So the plan doesn’t work, and Dean will never let him forget that. If they ever see each other again, that is, because when Sam wakes up, he finds himself in an empty office, alone. He immediately stands up, checks for injuries - he seems to be okay, though, and he’s still wearing his running clothes, which means there’s a good chance his body is still sitting in the temple - not that _that_ is necessarily good news, because Cas was clear on the risks of intercision, as he’d called it - the permanent separation of one’s soul from one’s body (Dean had looked away, then back at Cas, and Sam had known, there and then, that whatever the risks and no matter how stupid the plan, they were getting ahead with this).

But, still, he seems to have gotten somewhere. Step A, done.

Picking up a letter opener from one of the desks, Sam walks to the door, tries the handle. Closed. And, well, there are no windows, which really means (again, good news) that this is not a physical space, but a mental one. In whose mind, though, Sam is too afraid to even wonder.

As he stands over a desk, idly taking in the legal document on top of a pile of binders, Sam suddenly becomes aware of a slow, slight sense of cold and love. If love felt like this, that is - like your own ribs trying to slowly suffocate you.

But, still, what that means: Lucifer must be around.

Which, again, good news, but also -

Sam shivers.

And where is Dean?

As he’s about to straighten up and try the door again - he’s been considering the furniture; he’s been thinking, vaguely, that he could use one of the heavier chairs as a battering ram, even if that’s not a real door, so - he notices something else. Something that is _not_ Lucifer. Something that is much _closer_ than Lucifer - the feeling is so bizarrely unique: not unfriendly, and yet still dangerous, like a dark room one has seen many times before but with the furniture all moved around.

And Sam only has to push against it very slightly to know exactly what’s going on.

“I know you’re there,” he says, in a low whisper. “Show yourself.”

There is a soft sound behind him, then, and, next, a familiar voice.

“I should have known I could not hide myself from you.”

Sam closes his fingers more tightly on the handle of the letter opener, turns around.

Gadreel is standing a few feet from him, on the other side of a desk. He’s still the handsome, soldier-like barman Sam remembers so well, and he’s still dressed in dark jeans and a hoodie - although his clothes are different now - they look - faded, somehow, as does the rest of him. Unhealthy, and somehow half gone, like the angry outline of pencil left behind by a cheap eraser. In fact, Gadreel looks positively _haggard_ against the surrounding background - the orderly line of desks, the luscious plants in the corners.

Sam is not sure how that makes him feel, so he just stares.

“We’ve known each other too well, and too deeply.”

“Not by my choice,” Sam says, now shifting his weight so he’s ready to fight if needs be; and the truth is, he still doesn’t know how to feel about the whole thing - he understands why Dean did what he did, and, what’s even more problematic, he understands why Gadreel did what he did as well.

Also - only two years have passed from the Trials, but they may as well be two centuries. Sometimes Sam dreams of normal things - not Lucifer, and not Jess, but the corridors of Stanford and showing up naked to take his Administrative Law exam - and when he wakes up he can barely believe he was ever that kid - that for a (very short) period he was actually _young_. Because the heart of the matter is, of course - Sam has come to realize, over the years, just how much Dean has sacrificed for him, and he knows perfectly well Dean is not only his brother, but his mother and father as well. He knows Dean always made sure Sam had a roof over his head and at least one hot meal a day. He remembers Dean prodding at him and annoying him to do his homework (and this is what, all these years later, he finds most endearing, because Dean never cared much for school himself, and he was still a kid, but he’d still made damn sure Sam’s curiosity and love of books wouldn’t go to waste, and, for that, Sam is grateful); sitting with him in silence after yet another fight with Dad, and showing up against the schoolyard fence to give a baleful look to those annoying kids before they could take it further (and he’d known, of course he’d known, that Sam was plenty capable to fight them off; only, he hadn’t wanted him to). But despite all that, Sam was never a _normal_ child. He’d always felt isolated and freakish and, most of all, _old_ \- even if the one time he’d discussed this with Sully, the thing had gotten nowhere - Sully had materialized a sort of cape and a walking stick out of thin air, had started to wobble around the room and complain of aches and things until Sam had been forced to collapse into giggles. Still, Sam had felt a huge weight shift after the Impala had disappeared down the road - Dean had insisted to drive him to Stanford, but had chickened out from actually coming into the dorm with him, passing his hand into his hair a bit uneasily and almost turning into Dad for a second - mumbling something about Sam doing them proud before driving away. And even if Sam had thought about them (his brother and his father, lost in a world of shadows Sam didn’t want to have anything to do with) and worried about them, his time in Stanford had been so - _light_. He’d felt young - he’d felt, and acted, his age for the first time in his life.

Of course, hunting had put a stop to that. And Lucifer had put a stop to that. And Gadreel - Sam allows himself to truly look at the angel, almost unfocuses his eyes until he can see the faint outline of Gadreel’s Grace pulsating like live energy all around his human body - Gadreel had sounded out Sam’s soul, and he’d been - gentle about it, when he hadn’t needed to be. Because, sure, Crowley had found him in the Bunker, trying to unravel a case (ghouls and cheerleaders, of all things), but Sam had been there because - that had been a deliberate choice.

When he’d first woken up, he’d been in Stanford. It had taken him months to figure it out, or so it had seemed, thinking back on it. Of course, he hadn’t seen anyone, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone, and even Jess had been taken from his mind, because such profound, unhealed pain would have woken him up, but he’d still been himself - he’d spent his days at the desk, his laptop open on some outdated trial, books scattered all around him.

And then, one day, someone had knocked on his door.

Sam still had a pencil between his teeth, hadn’t even turned around as he’d forced out a tired _Yeah_ , because he’d been frustrated and on edge and -

“Are you happy?”

The man on the threshold of his room wasn’t like anyone Sam had ever seen before. Something had tugged at his memory, because he’d felt like he should have remembered who the man was, but the memory wouldn’t come.

“Am I what?” he’d said, and he’d tried to seem unaffected, and he’d never been good at this, Dean was always the one who -

“Are you happy?” the man had asked again, and then had taken a step forward, turning his eyes, a bit dubiously, around Sam’s small room (the blue bedspread, currently in disarray; those two novels - _Vanity Fair_ and _Reaper Man_ \- almost lost in a sea of thick library volumes; and that Jean-Paul Sartre’s poster on the wall - _If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company_ ).

“I - no, not really,” Sam had answered, and that had been the beginning of an extremely weird day.

Sam wonders if Gadreel even remembers; and if he does, what he makes of it. Because, well, it doesn’t even matter if those had been the confines of his own mind - Sam had ended up talking about Dean, how much he loved and resented his brother; had scavenged a couple of joints from his roommate’s stash (and where was David, anyway? none of that had made any sense) as he shared, for the first time in his life, what it was, exactly, that Dean and Dad did, and why he didn’t want any part in that.

(Or maybe he did.)

“Free will is a poisoned gift if you use it to walk away from those who love you,” Gadreel had said, but they’ both been a bit high by then, so Sam had laughed it off.

The more he’d talked, though, the more he’d come to realize that none of that was real. As soon as he looked away from Gadreel, he would see other things - Dean, mostly (Dean dying in his arms; Dean pushing him around; Dean smiling at him, in that shit-eating way he had, as he started on a burger), but also - other things ( _I deserve to be loved_ , Crowley’s voice echoed; and, next, someone he couldn’t quite place, someone saying _You should make your own choices - are you happy, Sam?_ ).

“You’re not real, are you?” he’d said in the end, and Gadreel’s eyes had softened for the first time.

“I am here to help you, Sam. If you need me to be real, I can be.”

Sam had felt it, then - a strong sense of familiarity, and also -

“I need reality to be real,” he’d said, slurring the words a bit.

“You’re not strong enough.”

“I am too.”

“Sam -”

“I’ve been strong enough since I was seven.”

“I know.”

Sam never admitted it to Dean, because this - forcing him to be possessed - was unforgivable. And all those night he’d spent reliving this conversation, thinking of the way Gadreel had looked at him - there had been no worry there, not the constant fear always in Dean’s eyes; and not even that other thing - that wary distance in Cas’ eyes which had slowly turned into soft affection. Sam treasures both, but it had been good to be looked at like - like he was _enough_ , somehow. Like he wasn’t someone to be protected or to be feared or to be led somewhere, but simply _someone_ \- because that thing inside his dorm room, that thing which had lived months and months inside his mind and soul (the _angel_ ) - he’d _understood_ Sam. He’d accepted his arrogance and his bad choices and his desperate need for recognition the same way he’d accepted Sam’s pain, his penance, his quiet search for a better self. He’d taken it all, and Sam had been - grateful. He hadn’t been able to admit it to himself until after Gadreel’s death, but he’d still been grateful.

And now - Sam clenches his jaw at the expression on Gadreel’s face, because, no matter what he did wrong, the angel died for them in the end, and that is a debt that can never be repaid. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying to bridge the silence between them, and Gadreel looks away.

“I sinned,” he says simply. “I chose to bring to an end what was not mine to control, and this is my punishment.”

Sam looks at him again - the faded clothes, the pale skin - and lets the makeshift weapon he’s holding clatter down on the desk.

“That’s unfair. We won because of what you did. You saved so many lives. You saved us all.”

Something shifts across the line of Gadreel’s mouth, then, but it’s gone before Sam can even decide what it was.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “My life was not mine to throw away.”

“You didn’t throw it away,” Sam insists, but now Gadreel turns his head, looks straight at him again, and Sam falls silent.

Arguing the Word of God with an actual angel - probably not the brightest idea he’s ever had. He thinks about that room inside his mind again, wishes for a fleeting moment things had been different - that that conversation could have gone on, because if Gadreel had never been targeted by Metatron -

Metatron would never have been defeated.

So, well.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Gadreel asks, after a short moment of silence. “I can see you’re alive in the world, but that could easily change. This place is dangerous.”

It sounds like a threat, but it’s not. Sam would never presume to understand how, exactly, Gadreel thinks, but he knows as much.

“Cas is sick. We’re trying to cure him,” he says, and this time, the display of emotions on Gadreel’s face is easy to read.

(Unhappiness. Concern.)

“Sick? How?”

Sam wonders, for a fleeting second, if he should really be talking about this. He knows, though, can feel in its bones, that the door behind him is still closed; that it won’t open. Wherever his brother is, he’s on his own. Whether Lucifer decided that, or whether it is a matter of fate and destiny - Sam doesn’t know, has no way to find out. All he can do is hold on to Lucifer’s presence somewhere deep inside him, and try to guess at his mood (currently, amusement) and hope Dean and Cas will be able to talk him out of whatever he’s planning (hope they will offer Lucifer the one thing Lucifer can be offered, because, even if Sam can’t see him, he can still say yes to him, and he will).

“Lucifer possessed him, and Cas -”

“Lucifer _possessed_ Castiel?”

Gadreel is outraged now; and, more than that, sickened.

“That is forbidden. It’s an abomination.”

“Well, as you know, Lucifer was never a great stickler for rules,” Sam says, and then, despite himself, he turns back and walks to the door, trying the handle again; passing his fingers over the hinges, looking for a weak spot.

“That is different,” says Gadreel behind him, but Sam hardly hears him, because he can suddenly feel it - Lucifer is angry, now, and - is that - fear?

“Sam, you need to go back. The longer you stay here, the more danger you’ll be in.”

This is Dean, all over again. Sam knows what he’s doing is not safe, or even a good choice in any way, but he won’t take it back. Not for anyone.

“And why do _you_ care?” Sam asks, turning around again. “So I die here, so what?”

“You forget I know you,” Gadreel says, almost reproachfully. “Knowledge often leads to affection, and in your case - you and I are too much alike for anything less.”

Sam stares at him.

“Are you saying - what? That you _care_ about me?”

Gadreel seems as surprised as Sam feels.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asks.

Suddenly, it’s almost too much. Sam is always prodding at Dean, and annoying him about how bad his brother is at this - accepting that people care about him, and that he should let them - but the truth is, of course, he’s not much better himself.

“So, is this place - what is this place?” he asks, because this is really not the right time to have this conversation.

Gadreel frowns at him, but allows him to get away with it.

“Punishment,” he says, obediently.

“This is insane.”

“It is not forever, Sam,” Gadreel says, quietly, and Sam suddenly remembers the glint in Gadreel’s eye that one time they’d caught him - how what he had feared had not been pain, or death, but imprisonment.

“So what? That makes it okay?”

“Yes. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. If what you say is true, Castiel cannot be saved, and Lucifer is beyond redemption. Sam, you must leave.”

“Stop saying that, and help me,” Sam snaps, giving up on the door, and walking back to Gadreel instead. “How do I get to them?”

Because the thing is, Lucifer’s presence is getting heavier with every passing second, and soon it will be too much for Sam to hold back.

“How do I - I _need_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t know, exactly, how the sentence should end.

Gadreel bows his head. Despite being almost taller than Sam and definitely broader, he looks oddly vulnerable. Sam thinks about that room again - about being nineteen again - about raging so much about Dean he’d almost cried, because, okay, maybe he’d been a bit high; about Gadreel looking back at him in that level, quiet way (“You are allowed to be both, Sam. Angry with your brother and worried to death about him. It’s okay.”).

When Gadreel finally looks up, he cocks his head slightly to one side, like Cas used to do at the very beginning, and Sam frowns; he’s even sure, all of a sudden, that Gadreel remembers none of that - nothing about Sam’s head at all.

“Are you familiar with John the Elder?” Gadreel asks, very earnestly, as if they’ve been talking about this from the very beginning.

Sam shrugs.

“John of Patmos?” he asks. “The Revelation guy?”

Gadreel nods.

“Yes. He spent fifteen years on an island raving about a two-headed lamb,” he says, dryly, with a trace of something that could be humour in someone else, and Sam doesn’t know how to make of it, and how it will help him at all.

“Raving? I thought the Romans exiled him because he was a prophet,” he offers, a bit warily and very conscious he’s talking to a guy who probably _met_ John.

Gadreel almost smiles, then - a barely there thing which makes him look about ten times closer to a human.

“They didn’t exile him because he was a prophet. They exiled him because - how would you put it? - he was a danger to himself and others. They had to tie him down to get him to eat.”

“So he - what happened to him?”

Gadreel’s smile turns bitter.

“Lord Gabriel happened to him,” he says, and Sam is distracted for a second by the idea that anyone would refer to Gabriel as _Lord_ \- he remembers, sharp as glass, Gabriel’s easy smile - sees the guy sniff at a candy bar before biting in, as delicately as if he were probing fine wine, before explaining to Sam, in great detail, what it was, exactly, that made humans so worthless and plain stupid.

Lord Gabriel, indeed. Sam shakes his head, forces himself to listen to Gadreel instead.

“He possessed John, on God’s command, because John needed to be shown the end of all things, so he could warn humanity. But sharing your body with an angel - with an archangel - that has - consequences.”

Sam thinks this over. It seems reasonable, and it’s also something he really doesn’t want to hear right now, because what he’s planning to do - that’s the only way out, for any of them, and he won’t be swayed.

“When Lucifer - when I,” he starts, but he finds he’s unable to finish his sentence, because the thing is still so vivid in his memory - that building in Detroit, and the expression on Lucifer’s face when he’d heard Sam’s curt _Yes_ \- the relief, the joy, the love, even - Sam still feels tainted by it, after all these years. “I mean, I could see everything.”

“You - you could?” asks Gadreel, in complete shock. “That’s -”

He doesn’t seem to have any words, though (or, at least, any human words) to say what that is, exactly.

“I think that was kind of the point,” says Sam, drily, because Cas did take his memories of the Cage, but there are still things he remembers -

(How easy it had been to hurt Dean - hell, even on demon blood, when he’d been so much stronger than his brother, there had been some effort involved - the normal human effort there always is in moving around and acting against gravity - but picking up Dean and shoving him into the Impala’s windshield, Sam had never felt _anything_ like it. It had been - a mere extension of his own wishes, somehow - something fluid and natural and completely obvious, like a heart beating. And when Dean’s skull had cracked against the glass - Sam had felt it in a way he’d never felt anything before - the smell of blood, and every drop of life inside Dean screaming like a foghorn, recognizing the raw force of the archangel as both threat and kin - because isn’t God’s love the fabric of our own souls, just as it webs together angelic Grace? And if hurting Dean had felt like been plunged headfirst into a bucket of sounds and colours and feelings, killing Cas had been - had been - the sacrilege of it, the _betrayal_ \- Sam had -)

\- things he could never get away from, things maybe he doesn’t wish to get away from, not anymore, because they help him to understand the world, to be grateful and humble about his own role inside it.

“But you _survived_ ,” says Gadreel, barely above a whisper.

He sounds awed - both amazed and terrified - and Sam shifts a bit uneasily.

“I was created to be the vessel of an archangel. And that’s also why - look, I’m over what you did to me, okay? I understand why you did it. But allowing me to see what was going on wouldn’t have hurt me. You shouldn’t have hid from me.”

Gadreel presses his hands briefly together, as if in prayer, and then lets them fall at his sides again in his customary ready for battle stance.

“I couldn’t be sure of that,” he says, levelly. “I wouldn’t risk your life, or your sanity. And you couldn’t have asked me to. It’s unfair, Sam. I live to serve Man, after all.”

And Sam wants to be annoyed at the guy, to hate him, even, but he suddenly finds he can’t. Suddenly, he’s just tired.

“I get it,” it’s all he says, and then they stand awkwardly in front of each other, the room around them growing colder and colder.

Or maybe that’s only inside Sam’s head, because it’s not really cold, is it? It’s Lucifer.

“You have no idea how unusual you are, do you?” asks Gadreel, and it’s so unexpected Sam almost takes a step back.

“What do you mean?”

“Possession is one thing, but the archangels - when they claim their rightful vessel, it is forever.”

Sam shivers, shakes his head.

“The human soul is crushed by the weight of them,” says Gadreel, seemingly oblivious to Sam’s discomfort. “The two are one and the same, and therefore cannot survive in the same space.”

“Are you saying,” asks Sam, and he licks his lips, because his voice won’t come out. “Are you saying angelic Grace consumes the soul of the vessel?”

“When an archangel takes possession of his rightful vessel, then, yes. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” echoes Sam, and Gadreel averts his gaze.

“Sometimes - very rarely - the opposite occurs. Sometimes men are strong enough to withstand the attack,” he says, and then frowns. “Although, I’m not sure _strong_ is the right word. Maybe it’s a matter of purpose; of love, even.”

That doesn’t make any sense. None of it does.

“So, then what?” Sam asks, in unwilling fascination. “The human soul would take over and - expel the archangel?”

“It would consume him. For all intents and purposes, the human soul would _become_ the archangel.”

That seems so far-fetched Sam can just stare.

“Has this actually _happened_ before?” he asks, barely managing to suppress the second half of his sentence, which went something like, _Or are you pulling all this out of your ass?_

“Lord Raguel was consumed by his vessel,” Gadreel says, his voice barely audible. “A man named Aridai. He was just a carpenter,” he adds, a curious mixture of resentment and admiration in the word.

“So was Joseph,” Sam points out. “What happened to him? Did he become an archangel?”

“God struck him down,” says Gadreel, and now he looks back at Sam, his blue eyes almost too big on his face as he pleads Sam to understand. “The power of an archangel - Aridai went mad. He couldn’t control it. He couldn’t hold it in. He would have destroyed the world. Sam, this is why -”

“Right,” says Sam, even if nothing is actually right about this. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I still -”

“I _saw_ you. I know you think Castiel forgot your soul when he raised you, but the truth is, your soul was almost entirely gone by then. You managed to wrestle control back from Lucifer,” says Gadreel, and, again, he sounds awed, “but it didn’t last long. And even in the Cage, Lucifer would have consumed you if Death hadn’t claimed your soul for himself.”

“I see,” Sam says, as if none of this were making him want to throw up and hide in his bed for all eternity.

_Jesus._

“And Death -” he starts to ask, desperate to keep talking, because this is insane and way too much, but, in that moment, the room starts to almost vibrate around them.

“What is it?” Sam asks, looking up; and then, out of instinct, he looks for a weapon, but, of course, there isn’t anything, just pens and papers and half a dozen of very outdated computers.

“This cannot be.”

And now the room actually shakes. Cracks start to appear in the walls - in the ceiling - Sam is about to move towards Gadreel when he _feels_ it -

“What is it?” he asks again, and he can barely force the words out.

And then there is pain - the worst pain Sam has ever experienced in his life - it consumes him like ice and fire, it tears him apart - he sees his life flashing in front of his eyes -

(Coloured light and something which could be flowers or trees and a voice speaking of love and the dreadful weight of an unbearable loss; then colours again, and then darkness.)

\- except it’s not _his_ life at all.

And then, it all just stops. Sam comes to, finds he’s still standing in the exact same place he was only a moment before, though his hands are clutching the desk so tightly he’ll probably break the wood any second now. He feels - he doesn’t know _how_ he feels. There must have been another shock while he was - gone, because half the furniture is in disarray, plants and filing cabinets overturned.

“What -” he starts, but then someone screams over their heads - a sound of pain and loss and -

“Cas?” Sam calls, looking up. “CAS!”

There is no answer.

The room shakes again, and this time Sam falls down, his hands coming up to protect his head.

“What’s going on?” he says, once the shakes abate; he gets to his knees, looks up at Gadreel. “What happened to my brother?”

(Because Sam doesn’t want to think about it, but he knows - he just _knows_ \- there’s only one reason Cas would make such a sound. Only one.)

Gadreel’s face is completely bloodless.

“Lucifer is dead,” he says, slowly, as if he cannot quite believe it.

“I - Where is Dean?”

Sam doesn’t know how he feels about that, if anything. He will think about that later. All that matters now is -

“You should go, Sam. Until there is still time.”

“What?”

Sam gets to his feet, looks up. The room looks like it’s about to cave in.

“The gates are closing. And once they are closed, they will stay closed. You will be trapped in here for all eternity.”

There is a sound, now; something like distant wind, growing heavier and heavier.

“Okay, I - come with me, then.”

Gadreel bows his head.

“I can’t. I am still an angel, Sam. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

Sam just looks at him; he tries to think, finds he can’t. There is something heavy and ugly inside his chest, a thing which is always, always there but has now grown so much as to constrict his breathing (his fear for Dean). What is still rational about him warns him about what he’s about to do; reminds him of what it was like to be unwelcome inside his own body; to see his own hands raise up and -

“Yes,” Sam says, silencing that cautious voice. “Yes.”

Gadreel’s head snaps back up, and the angel stares at him in confusion (raw shock).

The ceiling starts to crack, and something dark and thick slowly drips down on them. Sam feels it on his hair, heavy and poisonous. It smells like petrol.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says again.

“You do not mean that.”

“I do. Now come on.”

Gadreel takes a step closer. Something flashes in his eyes - hope, perhaps, and also guilt, and self-loathing. Sam knows the expression well - he’s been seeing it in the mirror for years.

“Why? I do not deserve it.”

“Forgiveness is not about deserving it,” says Sam, levelly, willing Gadreel to just understand. “It’s about needing it.”

“Sam -”

Whatever was supposed to come after, it is drowned by a momentous crash - half the ceiling caves in, bringing down more goo and a hurricane of dust - Sam can hardly see, now -

“YES,” he yells, and he feels it happen - first the overwhelming, almost pleasurable feeling of possession (a wave of peace, of false promises; the temptation to just give up), then how the place around him sees to fade and sizzle, and next -


	9. The Arwen Paradox

Dean is not happy. About, like, anything. 

Then again, what else is new?

_You do not bring Sam into this_ , he thinks, as loudly as he can, but there is no reply. The room is eerily quiet, and so is the inside of his head.

Dean cheats, glances to his left. 

Cas is there alright, his eyes open, his head slightly bowed. He’s doing it already, Dean can tell, which means it may be too late to reach him. 

Also, Dean has never been able to stop Sam from doing anything.

_Goddammit_.

So it looks like they’ll all die, then. For the second time in two days, Dean remembers that evening in the Bunker, because he’s lucky like that and also how the _hell_ will he be able to empty his mind with so much fucked up stuff nesting inside it - stuff like Charlie curled up against him, Cas on the floor, leaning against the couch, his dark hair so, so close to Dean’s hand - and Dean had tried, okay? He’d _tried_. As the movie inched forward, Dean had moved his hand, until finally (it had probably taken him forty minutes or something, because, yeah, wuss alert) he’d felt the cotton of Cas’ shirt against his knuckles; and also, oh God, the faintest trace of Cas’ warm skin. He’d just remained there, then, as trapped as those poor fuckers inside Minas Tirith, completely frozen as Charlie unpeeled herself from his legs and leaned forward, a frown of concentration on her face even though she’d surely seen the movie thirty times already; he’d barely dared to breathe, much less to do anything with that almost not there contact he’d finally ( _finally_ ) managed to establish between them.

And then Cas had pushed back, angling himself so that Dean’s fingers were now grazing skin only; the vulnerable, enticing part that was the back of Cas’ neck.

Dean had been too drunk to even suspect the possibility that hadn’t been deliberate (a shy attempt to flirt back); and so, after taking a swig of beer from his (sixth? seventh?) bottle, he’d sort of turned his hand around, his thumb forming small circles just behind Cas’ ear.

And maybe, probably, things would have gone much further if Charlie hadn’t suddenly decided that she’d had enough. 

“I didn’t remember this was so long. It’s taking forever,” she’d tried (a blatant lie); and, next: “It’s boring.”

That had been so close to blasphemy Dean had trapped her foot and tickled it - Sam shaking his head so loudly Dean had somehow heard it, and Cas turning around to look at them with a cautious smile, and Dean - 

Dean had felt like an actual person for maybe twenty minutes in his miserable life, because this was what normal people did - pizza and a movie and very awkward flirting and pretend fighting - until the scene on the screen had changed and they’d all sobered up (it had been like a bloody switch or something - Sam staring at the screen as if he couldn’t see what was going on around him and really didn’t care, Charlie looking terribly sorry, and Cas - _Cas_ -), because, yeah.

Because that had been Arwen’s scene. 

_If Aragorn survives this war, you will still be parted_ , Elrond had said, and Dean’s hand had tightened around his now empty beer bottle. _If Sauron is defeated and Aragorn made king and all that you hope for comes true, you will still have to taste the bitterness of mortality. Whether by the sword or the slow decay of time, Aragorn will die. And there will be no comfort for you - no comfort to ease the pain of his passing._

Yeah, Sam had been so quiet it was like he’d never existed at all. Charlie had looked at him, then back at the screen, her mouth a thin line (and, God, she’d only met Cas that day, how could she even _know_? was it really so _obvious_? _Jesus_ ). Dean had looked down to the top of Cas’ head, had fancied he could see, only just, the tightening of Cas’ shoulders under the white shirt.

_He will come to death an image of the splendor of the kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world; but you, my daughter, you will linger on in darkness and in doubt as nightfall in winter that comes without a star_ , and yeah, so he’d been drunk, but not that drunk, and, right there and then, he’d finally cottoned up. _Here you will dwell, bound to your grief under the fading trees until all the world is changed and the long years of your life are utterly spent._

And then, Dean had finally felt Sam’s eyes on him; had refused to look back.

“Anyone wants more beer?” he’d asked, in his well-practiced _Don’t mind me, I’m not dying_ voice; and then he’d stood up, staggered into the kitchen.

Dean shuffles awkwardly on his cushion. Looks at Cas, then away.

Because, the thing is, later that night, after Sam and Charlie had gone to bed, Cas had come to find him - Dean had been fucking around on his laptop by then, because he’d seen a newsfeed alert about a string of heartless corpses in Indiana and was trying to see if it was one of their things or not and that was why he’d skipped the rest of the movie, no other reason.

“Hey Cas,” he’d said, his eyes on the screen as Cas emerged in the room in shirtsleeves, looking determined and also awkward and dorky as fuck thanks to the blanket Charlie had apparently forced around his shoulders. “Do you know of anything that eats both hearts and ribs?”

Cas hadn’t answered; had looked at Dean, instead, until Dean had been forced to look back.

“Arwen chose to stay,” he’d said, loud and clear, as if reciting it in front of an audience.

Dean had been just this side of a panic attack, then, but he’d pushed it back, prodding and stabbing at this black slime in his gut until it was almost hidden from sight.

“Arwen died,” he’d said, offhandedly, because they had been discussing the movie, nothing else.

“She remained at Aragorn’s side for decades,” Cas had countered, “and finally accepted the Gift of Men with him. Charlie told me. They had a happy life, Dean.”

Dean keeps his eyes on the nail head which is fast becoming as familiar as the palm of his hand as he remembers how open and hopeful Cas’ face had been; how much his own heart had hurt and dented inside his chest - how much he’d wanted to stand up and -

And Dean knows Cas hasn’t taken that back (will never take it back). Last night, if they had - if he’d allowed that kiss to deepen, then - 

Because Cas had told him all about his personal corner of Heaven, okay? Some poor fucker’s Tuesday, or something. Cas had talked and talked about it into the darkness of a dreary Idaho motel as Dean stared at him, imagining he could see Cas’ blue eyes shining, turning the room white with light.

Instead, well, Cas had been a man then. He’d been desperate and bitter and oblivious enough (of Dean, and of how much this was _hurting_ Dean) to finally talk about this. About the power of human souls, and how he wasn’t sure he even had one. About how dangerous they were in any case, because even being close to one -

Dean had done his best to disappear into the mattress, then, hoping Cas would forget he was there and keep talking, because they’d never really discussed this, and maybe they should have; because Dean, of course, knew nothing about human souls, but had come to recognize the gentle weight of Cas’ Grace against him, and he -

And then Cas had told him the whole thing. That human souls were so dangerous, in fact, angels were not allowed to step into Heaven. Not the _human_ part of it. Not unless something very, very grievous was going on -

(And Dean, ever the asshole, had immediately thought about General Grievous, because, honestly, who even _uses_ that word?)

\- and therefore, maybe being human wasn’t so bad after all, because - “There are ways to visit each other in Heaven, Dean, even if it should turn out that I’m wrong and that we’re not -”

We’re not - what? Dean had only found out much later, thanks to a fight with Sam which had followed a discussion with Cas, that what Cas had meant (and never said back then, because his sentence had come to an abrupt stop in the darkness, and Cas had looked at Dean, then away, and that had been it) had been _soulmates_ , and holy shit.

The idea should have been weird and disturbing; and what was weird and disturbing instead was - well - that Dean had found it perfectly reasonable. 

Because he could feel it, as well.

( _A more profound bond_. Right.)

And ever since that night in Rexford, when he’d learned Cas loved Humanity so he had tricked his way into a human Heaven for the last few decades, and that he’d only been allowed entry because the man’s rational mind had been maimed, or something (and, again, who the fuck even _talks_ like this - _maimed_ , for Chrissakes) - Dean had found himself hoping against hope that Cas had received a human soul in exchange for his stolen Grace, so that when they died - so that they could -

And then Cas had gotten his Grace back and Dean had felt like the biggest douchebag in the history of douchebaggery, because he’d felt - he’d felt - _God_.

That promise of infinity had been snatched back. What they had, now, was one human life together, and not even that, knowing Dean’s luck.

So, about five years or something (forty at the most) unless -

But, yeah, that was not happening.

To trap an immortal being into a mortal life - Dean has done so many things he regrets in his life, and he’s killed people who didn’t deserve it and he will never be able to take that back, but this - this is where the line is. He will not make Cas Fall for him, and he will not _allow_ Cas to Fall for him. Cas may believe he wants it, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Dean is just not worth that.

Which is why he’s always ignored Cas’ hopeful smiles, and Sam’s bitch face; and also why that evening, he’d basically laughed at Cas’ face and rolled his eyes.

“She _died_ , Cas,” he’d said, closing his hand around his beer bottle, finding it empty. “It’s like, a message or something. That men break everything they touch. Something to do with the Industrial Revolution,” he’d added, unconvincingly, desperately trying to change the subject, because the look Cas had given him - yeah.

And since then, he’d never - he’s tried not to - 

But still, he’s so fucking _selfish_. He can still feel Cas’ lips on his - can imagine, without even trying, how easy it would have been to press his hand on the back of Cas’ neck, to push him down to the floor and sit astride him and touch him and taste him -

Dean suddenly wonders if monasteries have rules against inappropriate thoughts, or something; and then he firmly pushes his hands one inside the other, as Sam has shown him, and starts thinking about other things - about those marshmallow monstrosities Sam liked as a child, about the precise, elegant angles of pool shots. About whether Senor Pink was ever defeated - Dean never got around to watch the end of that _One Piece_ episode.

And when his dick and his tear ducts are finally behaving, he looks at the stupid nail head in the wall and starts counting, keeping track of his breathing (in and out and in again), as he tries to be conscious of the room he’s in, of the warm wood and the slightly pungent incense smell; and yet not conscious at all.

And that is how, slowly, without even noticing, Dean slides into non-awareness and everything goes black.


	10. Weights and Measures

When Dean wakes up, he knows immediately, because that’s just a gift he has, that everything has gone wrong. 

“Fuck,” he says, emphatically, standing up and looking around. “ _Fuck_.”

He’s standing in what looks like the most boring office in the world, and he’s completely alone.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, again, and then checks the back of his pants for a weapon; but, of course, he’s still wearing those idiotic, girly pants, and there isn’t one.

So what that means is that he’s (probably) in the Empty, alone and unarmed. And Lucifer is around somewhere. And Sam and Cas -

\- _are perfectly fine_ , Dean thinks. _Stop that. Man up_.

Dean closes his hands into fists; and then he walks to the door, tries the handle. Which doesn’t budge. He gets at the hinges next, because this place is creepy, okay - rows and rows of desks, no windows, not a single -

“Cold,” a voice says, and, yeah, luck is really _not_ on his side today.

For one single moment of sheer madness, Dean considers the idea of not even turning around, because, God, one thing he really doesn’t want to see is Lucifer’s smug face; but, yeah.

He turns around.

Lucifer, annoyingly enough, looks like Sam, and this throws Dean for a moment, makes him panic, even, until he realizes - and he doesn’t know _how_ he knows this, exactly: perhaps it’s the faint light shimmering around Lucifer’s head, or perhaps it’s simply the clothes he’s wearing - a variation of that stupid white suit Sam wouldn’t be caught dead in - that this isn’t Lucifer possessing Sam; it’s just Lucifer, and if he does look like Sam it’s because Sam is his true vessel, and the default way he would appear to a human.

Which, yeah, is not comforting, like, at all.

“Cold what?” Dean calls out, and, again, he checks his pockets.

Which, of course, are still empty.

“You never played _Hunt the Thimble_?” Lucifer asks, and - Jesus - he takes one step forward. “God, you’re _boring_. What did you do as a child?”

“I killed monsters. It’s a habit I have,” snarls Dean, and that isn’t exactly a lie.

Lucifer smiles at him as if that’s the most adorable thing he’s ever heard. He seems ready to pinch Dean’s cheeks any minute.

“Monsters. That’s cute. Well, let me explain, then, since you’re unfamiliar with the game. You touched the hinges, and I said Cold, which means you’re not getting out that way.”

Dean is barely listening to him, because he will never, ever get used to seeing his brother look at him like that; simpering, almost, and yet with a very obvious threat of death written all over his face.

He moves to the side, towards where the windows would be in a normal room. He wants to ask, more than anything, where Cas and Sam are, but there’s a chance - a _small_ chance, but still - Lucifer doesn’t know they’re here, and -

“Cold,” Lucifer says again, almost lazily; and then he takes another step forward.

“How’s this place treating you, then?” Dean asks, because when psychopaths are busy talking about their evil plans they generally don’t have time to kill you, and not getting killed seems like a really good idea right now.

“Cold,” says Lucifer again, because he’s noticed Dean looking around - looking for another door (there isn’t any).

“Look, I’m not really in the mood for that, okay? Quit it.” 

“Warmer,” Lucifer says, and then he smiles a smile that’s so much like Sam’s Dean wants to throw up. “Would you rather discuss destiny's beautiful and mysterious ways?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I know why you’re here,” says Lucifer, and, when he steps forward, Dean has to grit his teeth not to step back, even if this puts Lucifer way too close. “It means that I want your brother, and you want mine. You have to admire the symmetry of it.”

Dean stays silent; he watches, instead, as Lucifer steps gracefully around an overturned chair. He looks completely in control, which is unfair; as dangerous and graceful as a very large cat.

“It was never supposed to be like that, of course. Sam is rightfully mine - yes, Dean, he’s rightfully _mine_ ; he was created for _me_ ,” he adds, his hazel eyes - _Sam_ ’s hazel eyes - lingering on the tightening of Dean’s jaw; on the anger in Dean’s eyes. “It was not written that I should give something in return. But you creatures - my Father’s love and the base instincts of a demon. You thrive on balance and bargains both, don’t you?”

“You always talked big,” Dean spits out. “Is that all you can do?”

Lucifer takes one more step, and now he’s standing right in front of Dean, so close Dean has to look up to see his face; and then, before Dean can even decide what he wants to do, Lucifer bends down so he can whisper in Dean’s ear.

“Careful,” he says, his voice like frozen honey against Dean’s skin. “I do not need you. I do not _want_ you. I would kill you now, in fact,” he adds, “if you were even worth the trouble.”

And then - fuck - he licks Dean’s _neck_ , a clean strip just below his ear, before straightening up and smiling to himself.

“Warm,” he says, appreciatively. “I see now why demons consume human flesh. It has - potential.”

“Get away from him.”

So Cas is here, and Dean has never been happier to see him; and also, he’s never been less pleased to see him, because he still remembers - in gory technicolour - the events in New Orleans, and how close Lucifer had come to killing Cas; knows perfectly well how much Lucifer had _wanted_ to.

“Relax. I’m just playing with him,” Lucifer says, turning away from Dean like he’s nobody and poses no threat, and now Dean can see Cas - unlike him, he’s back into his angel uniform, and that one detail - the vulnerable, all too human clothes (the tie slightly askew) - makes Dean ache all over.

Cas moves his hand, only just, and the silver blade appears from his sleeve.

“Oh, _please_. You know you can’t hurt me with that.”

“Nobody’s hurting anybody. We want to make a deal,” says Dean, ignoring the look of warning in Cas’ eyes.

“Is that so?” asks Lucifer, without turning around. “And what do you offer?”

“Start with fixing Cas, and then we can discuss terms.”

“What if we discuss terms right now?”

Lucifer turns and leans against a desk so he can look at them both. His hair (always too long, and hasn’t Dean told Sam, like, a hundred times, to just fucking cut it already?) falls in front of his eyes, and Lucifer pushes it back.

“You know what I want, after all.”

“Yeah, you’re not getting that.”

And Lucifer - Lucifer looks straight at Dean and pulls a perfect, honest to God Sammy bitch face - before winking at him and turning to Cas instead, leaving Dean wishing he could just -

“Castiel, what are you even doing here? Are you and your brothers in need of guidance? So soon?”

“We would never seek guidance from you.”

“Then I don’t understand why you would come. Surely, you must know I have no wish to heal you.”

“Listen, dipshit, we don’t care about what you wish. You don’t want to do this the easy way -”

“Oooh, are we doing this the hard way? Hot,” says Lucifer; and, from the way he says it, Dean knows he’s still playing the game, which means - not that he would ever _believe_ Lucifer, because he’s a rational human being and all - that, yeah, it _will_ come to blows (that is was always supposed to).

He tries to be happy about it; tries to believe they can take him.

(Tries not to think about what he's actually about to do instead, because, yeah.)

“Dean -”

“Where is Sam? Don’t you want him here? Don’t you want him to have a choice?”

Lucifer is standing up now, his smile wider than ever.

“A choice?”

“He could see you fight me, or he could give himself up. He will be mine either way, but if he goes with option two, you’ll live. I'll allow that,” Lucifer adds, benignly, as if it doesn't matter at all.

And where _is_ Sam, exactly? Dean wants to think he did as he was told, for once, and stayed behind, but, yeah - admittedly, it’s much more likely Sam is around here somewhere, probably fighting some invincible Godzilla-Voldemort hybrid, because their lives are just funny like that and when things seem to hit rock bottom, there’s always some vermin-infested place underneath.

“Dean, you can’t -”

And this is Cas again.

Dean ignores him, and circles around, until he steps between Cas and Lucifer.

Who is still looking at him with that indulgent _I could just eat you up_ smile.

“You can’t kill me, Dean,” he says, softly. “You can’t even _hurt_ me. Nothing can.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dean says, and then he breathes in, because he does have a plan, okay? He knows perfectly well Sam’s plan involved giving himself up, but, yeah, that’s not happening. Sam’s not dying and Cas’ not dying - not when Dean can make things right.

He glances back at Cas, once, in apology and recognition - hopes Cas can read his face, because everything is right fucking there ( _I love you so much, and I’m so fucking sorry_ ) and then, before Cas can even move, he faces Lucifer again.

“Yes,” he says, looking up at the underwhelming, normal ceiling. “You hear me, you dick? _Yes_. Now come on down and do your fucking job.”

Whatever happens next, it happens very, very quickly, because, never mind that Dean found it difficult to think about nothing and be nothing - turns out, it’s plenty easy if you’re not simply stepping away from yourself but allowing someone else in - and when Michael’s strength and anger and chaos crash into him, Dean gives in, almost ceases to exist.

He hears, very faintly, Cas’ scream. He hears Lucifer dying - can taste Michael’s pain in the back of his mouth, can only just see, as though through fog, Lucifer’s final flash of regret - can understand, because it’s pressing hard against his skull, how much is it that Lucifer has lost, and even how much he’d wanted to get it back; and it looks a bit like human feelings, even if it’s really not.

And then something else comes into focus - Cas’ clear, blue eyes.

“Dean,” he’s saying, over and over. “Dean, wake up.”

But Dean can’t wake up. There is not enough of him to even be, at the moment, and he’s not even sure - Michael’s Grace is like warm water around him, perfect and just right and also deep and dangerous. It closes in, presses against his skin, his soul, so close Dean can’t breathe.

“Brother, he’s gone,” he hears himself say, and he wants to rage against it, because what the hell?

“Dean, please.”

“Let it go.”

This is Michael, and yet it’s also Dean’s voice, because Cas needs to let this go - needs to let _him_ go - because it was a dream, all of it, and Dean was never good enough - was never worth -

Dean sort of looks up, beyond the dark water around him; can see, only just, Cas’ pale face looking back at him.

_Bye, Cas_ , he thinks, in a disconnected, broken way, and then, just as he’s about to sink into the peace around him, something else happens.

“Dean - _please_. I need you here,” says Cas’ voice, from very far away. “I _need_ you.”

Dean’s surroundings change and waver, until they become that crypt again - that moment where everything could have changed between them - that moment when - and, without even deciding it, Dean reacts to the thing in Cas’ voice (the pain, the desperation; the constant, deep love) and he swims upwards and he comes back - and he knows, as soon as he breaches the surface and breathes as himself again, that something is seriously, seriously wrong.

“Fuck,” he says; and Michael’s scream drowns his voice as the mightiest of God’s archangels is buried in the deepest, most secret room of Dean’s soul and disappears even from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from a beautiful poem by Christina Rossetti:
> 
> _I loved you first: but afterwards your love_   
>  _Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song_   
>  _As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove._
> 
> _Which owes the other most? my love was long,_   
>  _And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;_   
>  _I loved and guessed at you, you construed me_   
>  _And loved me for what might or might not be –_   
>  _Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong._   
>  _For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’_   
>  _With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,_   
>  _For one is both and both are one in love:_   
>  _Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’_   
>  _Both have the strength and both the length thereof,_   
>  _Both of us, of the love which makes us one._


	11. Knights of the Zodiac

Turns out that Chuck bought a house; a nice one, that is, on the beach and everything.

(Not that they can actually swim in the sea, because it’s like, March and still fucking cold, but all the same - it’s nice.)

“I just need space, in case I,” says Chuck, gesturing vaguely at the empty beach in front of them; and, really, he could mean anything (lasers, talking shrubs, turning crabs inside out).

God-like powers: not something you want to get out of hand in front of people.

“Yeah,” Dean says, a bit self-consciously; and, next, Sam decides to be a bitch.

“Man, your wings are showing,” he says, and Dean turns to look at him, frowns.

A lone log the currents have pushed on the beach catches fire and explodes.

“Jesus, you’re so _touchy_.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Cas reaches out, takes Dean’s hand; partly because he can, partly so Dean will calm down, because the powers of an archangel - yeah, that’s something else you don’t want to get out of hand.

Dean is still a bit unclear as to what happened - he remembers pain, and a lot of weirdass dreams. He remembers lying down on a bed, and a whole crowd of people around him - Sam and Cas and _Chuck_ , for some reason. Remembers Chuck looking at Cas, focused, worried.

“You just asked him to stop? And he did?” he’d asked, and Cas had nodded, and, yeah, Dean _does_ remember something about it - it had been like being drunk and high - he’d seen _sounds_ , for Chrissakes - one second he’d been in that stupid office room, and then he’d just - grown through the roof, or some shit - he’d tasted stars - he’d been - he’d _been_ -

And then Cas had called him.

“ _Stop_. You’ll get yourself _killed_. Dean, _please_.”

Cas’ voice had been beloved and familiar and yet completely new - a thing of moons and sugar and colours - Dean had sort of reached for it, missed, found his hands full of sand and mud instead, and what the fuck?

“Come back,” Cas had said next; a plea and a prayer and also - Dean had heard it quite clearly - an unfinished sentence, because there had been something else to it, and when he’d heard it (though _heard_ was not, perhaps, the right word), Dean had blinked and done as he was told.

( _I love you too._ )

So now everything is very complicated, because Dean is an archangel and Chuck is God (possibly; _probably_ ) and Sam is still possessed and he actually _likes_ it because, _Jesus_ , that’s just the kind of freak he is - and yet everything is also very simple (Cas’ hand in his; the quiet murmur of the sea around them, and how Dean can hear, without even trying, the sound of Cas’ Grace as it laps against his own).

“So you’re not gonna destroy me, then?” he asks, raising one eyebrow as he looks at Chuck, and Chuck shakes his head.

You would have thought becoming God (or discovering he was God all along, or whatever the hell happened to him) would have made him less of an anxious creeper - but, yeah, fat chance of that.

“Not if I can avoid it,” he says, all concerned, and also slightly slurring his words, because, of fucking course, that’s something else that hasn’t changed and God likes his morning waffles with a pitcher of whiskey, neat. “So make me avoid that, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“How? You can’t even hide your goddamn wings,” says Sam again, and Dean is just this close to -

The clouds above them start to swirl; turn faintly green.

“Stop that,” says Chuck, in irritation. “God, I thought that prophet bullshit was bad.”

“Are you _supposed_ to say _God_? Isn’t that a bit conceited?”

“How is Gadreel?” asks Cas, lightly, and that shuts Sam up.

Because, well, whatever is going on there, it’s definitely dodgy. It had taken them two weeks to even get Sam to admit something was off about him; and then he’d just gone ahead and said it - that Gadreel had hitched a ride out of the Empty, and, with one thing and another (mostly Dean turning into a wheel of fire and eyes for about two days, and hadn’t that been fun) they still hadn’t gotten around to get him a real vessel.

“He’s fine,” Sam mutters, and he has no reason to sound so offended.

“Yeah? You two doing it yet?” Dean asks, turning around and beaming at his brother; and, truth be told, he’d expected an angry rebuttal, because it’s not like he’d ever considered -

Sam opens his mouth, closes it.

“Holy shit,” says Dean, stopping in his tracks. “Holy _shit_. You _are_ doing it.”

“It’s not,” starts Sam, and then he pushes his hair back, even if it’s basically pointless because it’s windy as fuck. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he amends.

“Nothing _wrong_ with it? The dude lives inside your mind,” says Dean; he looks at Cas, hoping for some kind of help, but Cas is being all righteous and mysterious (he’s staring at the horizon, that is, and something about his sharp profile is making Dean forget what the conversation is even about), so, right - he’s on his own here. “This is, like, the most messed up wanking fantasy ever.”

“It’s not messed up. And it’s not a fantasy,” says Sam, trying to sound dignified.

“Yeah? How do you know he’s not making you do things?”

“I just know.”

“Dad, say something,” Dean says, turning on Chuck, because he knows Chuck hates the joke and, hey, if he suffers, then other people should be suffering as well.

“Don’t drag me into this. They both seem - really happy,” says Chuck, looking uncomfortable, and he gestures vaguely at Sam as though there’s more than one person standing there.

Which there sort of is, but Dean is trying to keep his new, awesome powers in check, and can’t see it. 

What he _does_ see, on the other hand, is Cas’ true form, and he’s still not used to how _that_ makes him feel. In fact, he’s staring at it now, and the fact Cas is completely oblivious is making this even better, because Dean can be a toppy bastard sometimes and Cas is cute when he’s clueless.

“Anyway, Cas and I are about to become embarrassing, so run along,” he says, tugging on Cas’ hand, dragging him away from the others.

“Ugh, Dean, like that’s something I want in my head.”

“Why? It messes with all that other dirty, wanky sex that's already in your head, you mean? The one you're basically having with yourself?”

“ _Jesus_. Sorry, Chuck.”

“Never mind,” Chuck says, and, next, the two of them are embroiled in some kind of theological discussion - Dean can hear it as they walk away without even trying, because, yeah, super powers, but it’s also, very, very boring, so he closes his eyes until he can tune it off.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

This is the first time they’ve really been alone since - since it all happened. Since Dean overpowered both Lucifer and Michael and became - 

“Yes. No. I will be,” he says, looking at Cas, because it’s true.

“You need to stop making things explode,” says Cas, seriously, as though Dean has been insisting this was actually a good idea; and maybe it sort of helps - pretending that Dean makes things explode because he wants to and not because he’s weird and out of control and will need to be killed off soon.

But still. Dean can be honest with Cas. Cas had seen right through him from the start, and still liked him, and that is - everything.

“It’s not like I want to. It’s just - it’s -”

“I know. You’ll get used to it.”

“I guess I’ll have to.” 

Cas smiles at him, a bit sadly.

“Unlimited power has its upsides, Dean.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

And, okay, so he’s just trying to be contrary, because it’s not like he doesn’t see it - Gabriel’s lifestyle, for instance, is starting to look all shades of appealing - infinite _pies_ , man - but Cas takes him seriously, because he always does.

He bends down, passes his right hand on one of the logs Dean has managed to destroy today, scraps off a burned piece of bark.

“You alway had a good heart, Dean. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Dean looks down at the black thing in Cas’ palm, and then - he can feel it before he can even see it - can hear the music of life being awakened - can sense the seed’s determination to get to the open sky, to see the world it’s been promised and destined to - and then the thing is there, in Cas’ palm: a green plant blinking up at them, growing leaves and blooming (a single, white flower) right under Dean’s eyes.

It’s truly beautiful.

“That’s gay, Cas, even for you,” Dean says, as Cas moves his fingers, only just, and the newly born plant disappears from the palm of his hand and finds itself in a safe place - at the very end of the beach, under the shade of a sturdy pine tree.

“If you mean happy, then yes, I am happy,” Cas says, completely deadpan, and, for a split second, Dean can almost convince himself Cas is serious, before he sees Cas’ Grace almost ripple with amusement. 

“God, were you _always_ like this?” he marvels. “Were you always cracking jokes all the time, and we were just too stupid to see it?”

“Maybe.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Dean shakes his head.

“I’m still not convinced this is - that I can do this,” he says, out of the blue, because this is so new, and scary, and if he fucks it up he could actually flatten the entire country.

“I have faith in you. I always had.”

And Dean doesn’t know what is making him do this, but he does it all the same (because, okay, he sort of knows; maybe). So he frowns in concentration, and points at the ground. When the sand starts sizzling, he hears Cas clearing his throat.

“Uh - Dean?”

“Shut up, I’m -”

Actual _fire_ comes out of his fingertips, and, holy _shit_ \- Dean almost jumps back before remembering he’s now immortal and almost all-powerful, and not acting like a little girl is, like, in the job description - he kneels down instead, moves his fingers in the sand a bit - and gets the thing out.

It’s nothing elaborate, and it’s not as beautiful as Cas’ plant, but it’s still - something. A sort of glass flower, fragile and delicate. Something that should never have existed at all, and yet now is here, and Cas will have to decide what to do about it.

Dean raises the thing up, but Cas takes his wrist instead, helps him to his feet.

“Fulgurite,” he says, with a smile in his voice. “I can teach you how to make pink ones.”

“Thanks a lot. Here I go, trying to do something -” romantic, he’d been about to say, and Cas hears it anyway, and his smile widens.

“Something...?” he asks, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Nothing,” he answers, forcing the piece of glass in Cas’ hand, half turning away. “Let’s just go.”

“Dean.”

“What?” he asks, half resigned, half exasperated.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, Dean can only stare. Cas is still holding the glass lightning bolt in his hands, and he looks - he’s Cas, of course, with his stubble never quite properly shaved and his tie always a bit askew and his open, honest gaze - but he’s also that other thing Dean can now see - a thing of glorious, huge wings (now healthy and blindingly white) and passion and glory and (sometimes, like now) almost deafening music.

“Dude, cut it out. It’s -”

“I never said it back, that’s all. I thought it was customary?”

Dean shifts, uneasy. He’s not blushing, because he’s a mighty archangel and all that, and he’s definitely not remembering their first kiss (the darkened room; the taste of Cas’ dry lips).

“Yeah, I knew already, okay? I can see it, man,” he adds, gesturing vaguely at Cas’ Grace, now tinging dangerously with pink.

“I can see it too,” says Cas, a bit too quietly, and now his Grace is changing again - it’s becoming a bright, fiery red which is way too warm on Dean’s skin.

“If we - you know,” says Dean, and he can’t even look at Cas, because he can see his thoughts and longing, now, and it’s just - too much, and not nearly enough. “Will it make the world explode, or something?”

“You know that Mount St Helen eruption? Back in 1980?”

And, yeah, Dean might have seen a movie in some kind of lesson, back when he was a kid with badly cut hair and not some kind of Knight of the Zodiac with actual wings.

“That was Gabriel,” says Cas, and Dean meets his eyes, whistles.

“Okay, then. It’s on,” he says, and Cas shakes his head.

“It’s not a competition, Dean.”

“Like hell it isn’t.”

And, yeah, being an archangel is weird and not what Dean had planned and there is so much he still has to figure out; but, right now, all that is not important. Right now all that matters is Cas smiling at him, and the way his smile fades as he sees the colour of Dean’s Grace - a wondrous thing, Cas had called it, because he’s dorky like that and he was trying to put into words the fact that, like his own, Dean’s Grace is a messed up chaos of angelic Grace and a living, breathing human soul - change and swirl; become something that says, quite clearly, _I love you so fucking much, and I’m about to prove it to you in the best way I know how_. Right now, all that matters is Cas licking his lips and carefully tucking the glass flower Dean created for him into a pocket of his trench coat before bringing his fingers up, and starting to open the buttons of his shirt.

Yeah; that’s absolutely all it matters.

Dean takes a step closer to Cas, and the clouds above them start twisting again before turning a deep, strong pink and ebbing away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it - almost no angst, right? Phew. Anyway, thanks for reading! Come find me on tumblr if you want to chat - stuff I'm interested in includes mythology and folklore, Destiel, kittens doing things, Destiel, and world politics. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Here are the quotes which weren't acknowledged as quotes:
> 
> A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. - _Proverbs_ , 17:17
> 
> It was a dream, Arwen. Nothing more. - _The Two Towers_
> 
> What has to come will come, and they’ll deal with it when it does. > What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does. - _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_
> 
> _Intercision_ is indeed the forcible separation between body and soul, or, rather, between a person and their dæmon, in Philip Pullman's wonderful trilogy _His Dark Materials_.


End file.
